Watch and Learn
by Sheyrena Wyrsabane
Summary: As a boy, Clint learns to keep out of sight, how to read situations, and how to put his others before himself. When Clint is a young man, he gets shot by Agent Phil Coulson, and he learns to put those skills to use. Clint's formative years, his work with Trickshot, and his long history with SHIELD. The Avengers will be a thing, but their coming together diverges from the movie.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: There are references to child abuse, torture in this chapter

A/N: I've been reading pretty much every Phlint story in the tag, and I thought I'd give their story a shot and what was supposed to be a fluffy 5-9k piece turned into a 60k epic in 10 days. And now I'm scrambling to get the story tied up for NaNo. But, I did get to write my Phlint perspective, and obviously I had a great time with it, so I hope you all enjoy it.

* * *

Clint learns from an early age that it's best to be quiet, because if you're quiet then you go unnoticed and unnoticed means safe.

He tucks himself into cupboards and in the space between the fridge and the wall, wedging himself anywhere he can so he doesn't draw his dad's attention. He stays quiet and still, and he watches his mother and his brother, and he learns what not to do.

He learns to make sure that dinner is always on time and never burned. He learns that bad behavior or bad grade notes should never be delivered. He learns not to get caught fighting and to certainly never come home showing wounds. But what he learns most of all is how to stay quiet, how to stay hidden, how to wriggle out of tight grips. He learns how to evade, because he can't always stay hidden which means finding new ways to stay safe.

* * *

He learns, a little later, once his body is stronger and more resilient, how to take blame for things. He learns how to block out pain, how to bite back groans and screams. He learns how to hold back tears, how to hang his head and appear contrite. He learns how to fool his mother and fool his father.

It isn't until the circus that Clint learns how to fight. He'd never fought back against dad, because that was a way to earn more beatings, but at the circus, he has to adjust his approach to certain things. Fighting back is a way to dissuade future attacks. It's a new way to protect himself, and Clint takes to it as easily as he'd taken to hiding.

He still hides, though. And he still watches. He finds new perches, sometimes up in trees or in the rigging of tents. Sometimes in the folds of clothes inside a woman's closet or amongst the props in the storage tent.

Here, Clint learns how to shoot arrows with deadly accuracy. He learns how to throw knives. He learns how to entertain, how to cast illusions. He learns to be useful, because only useful boys are allowed to stay. He'd be a burden otherwise, and he knows better than to be a burden.

He cooks dinner sometimes, careful never to burn anything, except for the time that the strongman sneers at Clint and calls him a woman. Clint burns dinner the next night and shoves the strongman's face into his plate.

He gets a black eye and fractured arm for his efforts, but no one mocks his cooking ever again. Clint also learns how to throw knives as well with his right arm as with his left. After the cast comes off, he teaches himself how to use a bow and arrow right handed. He's not quite as good that way as with his left, but he's good enough that he can add ambidextrous shooting to his act.

At the circus, Clint learns when to be noticed, when to fade to shadow. He learns the value of balance, of moderation, and he tucks these lessons alongside others. He collects them, certain they'll be useful one day, he's just not sure when or for what.

* * *

Barney teaches Clint the pain of being left. One day Barney is there, the next he's gone. It isn't like their parents. Mother had never been dependable and secretly Clint had always wanted dad gone.

Barney has been Clint's constant, the one person with him from place to place, the one person that's familiar, that Clint can fall back on, rely on. And then he's gone, and Clint realizes that the only person who will always be with him is himself.

Clint pulls into himself after that. He laughs less, observes more. He talks less, saves his money. He's planning to do something, go somewhere, he just doesn't know what or where. He's never been good at planning. He survives, he adapts, but he has no concept of the future. He doesn't know where to start looking.

* * *

He doesn't have to look far.

Clint meets Trick one time when the circus is passing through a small town in Iowa. Trick is tall and loud and handsome, and he laughs like he hasn't got a care in the world. He's smart and well-traveled, and he's impressed with Clint even though Clint's just a kid struggling to make it through life.

He watches Clint shoot for hours, tests the limits of Clint's flexibility, runs Clint through obstacle courses and tests his tactical knowledge. He tells Clint that Clint's meant for more, that he has a purpose, and Clint has suspected, but he's never known, what that purpose is.

Trick offers to show him.

* * *

Clint spends a couple years partnered with Trick, breaking into banks, into rich people's homes. They take what they want, laugh at the people who think they're clever enough to keep them out.

Petty theft turns more serious. At some point Clint kills his first person, but he's seen Trick kill enough people to know how to react. Cool, calm, like it's nothing. Clint wipes the blood off on the man's shirt, pulls his arrow out of the man's chest (no sense in wasting ammunition) and goes to meet up with Trick.

Later that night, when Clint lies down to sleep, his shoulders shake, but he ignores it and eventually he falls asleep.

* * *

The second kill is easier than the first.

* * *

One day, Clint wakes up and he's 18. He spends the day playing poker with Trick and trying to get some intel on a target. That night he finds himself running for his life.

* * *

When Clint is nineteen and a half, with a reputation as The World's Greatest Marksman (Trick's choice, not Clint's), he runs into Barney again. Trick wants Barney on their team. Clint doesn't know how to say no so he shrugs and pretends he's not disappointed when Barney seamlessly become a part of the team.

* * *

Trick likes Barney better. Barney's funny and clever, and he talks and talks, and life is never boring with Barney around. Clint gets better at his job to compensate. He also gets more daring. He waits until the last second to take a shot or he lets a tree or a telephone pole obstruct his view of his target.

He swipes trophies, nothing he intends on selling or pawning or even keeping. He takes small things and he usually puts them in the victim's mailbox. Sometimes he drops them off on the doorstep of the local PD.

He's reckless and it's stupid, and he knows it'll catch up to him eventually, but he needs to be noticed, appreciated.

Trick isn't impressed with him anymore. Not now that Barney's around. Barney does things that Clint won't. He cuts off people's fingers and peels back the skin on their arms. He twists knives into sensitive areas. He taunts and tortures and makes people scream and beg and cry.

Trick loves it.

It twists Clint's stomach, but it's what's expected so he watches. He watches and he learns, but he only uses his new knowledge when he has to. He never does it for fun.

* * *

A hit goes wrong. Trick isn't where he's supposed to. Barney's not giving the 'go' signal. Clint's stranded, alone on the top of a roof, and he doesn't know what to do. There's no one to tell him what to do. No one to tell him to take the shot, to pull back, to search for the team. He doesn't know what to do, and he's lost, and it's why he doesn't notice that someone's come up behind him until it's too late.

He hears the crunch of gravel and he spins to see a man in a full suit pointing a gun at him. Clint pulls his bow, but the man is faster and a moment later, Clint registers a burn in his thigh and he looks down to see that he's been shot.

He nocks an arrow and lets it loose, but the man, expecting it, ducks and then he's on Clint, knocking aside his weapon, pinning his wrists at his sides.

"Stop struggling or you're going to bleed out," the man orders.

The tone brooks no room for argument. Clint hesitates. The man rips off his tie and uses it to tie a tourniquet. Clint doesn't understand. This man just shot him. Why is he going to save his life now?

"We should get you to medical," the man says. "I'm sorry for shooting you, but I've seen the reports on you. You would've killed me if I hadn't, and I didn't feel like dying tonight."

Clint doesn't say anything. He watches, observes, searches for his cue.

* * *

The man's name is Phil Coulson. He's an agent in SHIELD which Clint thinks is long for an acronym but compared to the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division he supposes that it's short. Apparently, SHIELD wants Clint to come work for them.

Clint's been asked to work for people before. It's how he ended up with Trick. Trick had wanted him, offered him the world. Clint had been given kill orders and then replaced when someone better came along.

Besides, SHIELD's recruiting policy was shooting him.

Clint says he'd rather be on his own.

Agent Coulson had nodded, not looking disappointed, not looking pleased, nothing on his face that Clint could read, and told Clint that he'd like it if Clint stayed until he healed.

Clint agrees, because he knows he'll be an easy target if he's on the street with a busted leg. He can walk with the use of a cane, but he's slow, and if he can stay here, safe and fed, then why leave?

* * *

He gets bored two days in. He's not allowed out of his room except to walk down the hallway and it's more like hobbling with the pace he's going at.

They don't let him through the double doors, because his clearance isn't high enough which means that Clint has about fifty feet of hallway to roam. There are hospital rooms on both sides of the hallway, but most of them are empty, and when he pokes his head in, all he sees is a single cot resting against the wall, bed perfectly made, and looking eerily expectant in the dim lighting.

Clint stops poking his head into empty rooms. There are two other rooms with patients, but he's not allowed in them. He's not allowed anywhere. He can understand why they don't trust him, but it doesn't stop him from being frustrated with his imprisonment.

* * *

Day three, Clint's staring at the double doors, contemplating whether or not he's going to go through. He's watched the doctors come in and out. He knows the pass code. He could slip out and explore.

He swipes two puddings from the food cart and disappears through the doors.

* * *

Agent Coulson finds Clint in an empty meeting room. Clint's sitting on the table, swinging his legs as he eats the pudding, squeezing the bottom of the cup, because he doesn't have any spoons.

"You were told not to leave medical," Coulson says.

He's in a suit that could be identical to the one he'd been wearing when he shot Clint. Clint wonders if the pay is so bad that the man can only afford one suit. He takes a closer look at the suit, noting the fabric, the cut, the lining. Coulson doesn't seem like the kind of person to spend all of his money on one good suit, especially in a job where he goes out on rooftops and shoots unsuspecting people. That means a decent salary and more than one suit, they just happen to all look the same.

Because it's easier to wear the same thing every day? That suggests laziness and difficulty with style. Or possibly efficiency and the knowledge of what looks good, because the suit does look good. Clint doesn't have enough information to make his decision yet. Also, Coulson looks like he's expecting a response.

"I got bored."

Coulson's expression doesn't change. It's the same blank mask he always wears. Clint wonders how he does it. "Your clearance isn't high enough to be outside the civilian medical wing."

"I got bored," Clint repeats. He doesn't point out that this facility isn't very complex. Clint could be almost anywhere if he wanted to be. Almost, because his leg is still giving him a bit of trouble. If he was fully healed then he's confident that there's no room that would be off limits to him.

"Then join up," Coulson says. "You'll get enough clearance for the first floor. Plenty to occupy you there." Coulson notices the shift in Clint's posture, the one that says 'I'm interested, but I'm not sold'. "We have a shooting range. Moving targets. Experimental arrows. You're good, but you could be better."

Clint knows he could be better, because Trick wouldn't have left him if Clint was good enough to keep. He had always told Clint that he was great and incredible and the best, but those were lies. You don't leave your best behind. You don't abandon greatness.

Clint has a lot of room for improvement. He knows this. He's always known this. He's never liked school, but he's always loved to learn, and his fingers have been itching to hold his bow again. He thinks that if he could get to the shooting range then he wouldn't feel the need to go exploring where he's not welcome.

There's only one problem. "Do I have to join?" Clint asks. He doesn't know these people. He doesn't want to trust people he doesn't know. But he'd thought he'd known Trick and Barney, and they'd left him. They'd left him to get captured. Clint looked up their op the other day. Successful theft of some high end jewelry. Thieves still at large. They'd left Clint and finished the job, and they haven't come to get him.

Maybe they're waiting. Maybe they can't reach SHIELD. Maybe Clint just needs to step out of the doors, and they'll find him. He doesn't want to make any other commitments, doesn't want to sign his life away to this man and become a permanent part of this building, because there are people waiting for him on the outside.

Barney and Trick will understand that he stayed to get healed. It'll be even better if he gets some training in. He can walk out of these doors soon, and he'll be rested, and healthy, and better than he's been before, and Trick will see that, and he'll clap a hand on Clint's shoulder and tell him he's the best.

"I'll see about getting you a temporary pass," Coulson says. "How's the leg?"

He doesn't seem fazed that he's the one who shot Clint, that he's the reason Clint's using a cane and has to have his bandages changed every couple of hours. Clint likes that. The man is professional which makes him predictable. Clint likes predictable. It's safe.

* * *

Clint gets permission to go to the range the next day. Agent Coulson arrives to supervise him, and they go to a sectioned off area where it's only Clint, Agent Coulson, and the targets.

"They don't trust me," Clint says. He nocks an arrow, draws back the string and releases. It lands dead center.

"Do you blame them?"

Clint draws another arrow. "No."

He lets it fly. He shoots another three before he changes his angle, shoots again. He spares a look at Agent Coulson. He's relaxed, filling out some paperwork, unconcerned that Clint is standing ten feet away from him with the means to kill him in his hands.

"Do _you_ trust me?" Clint asks after he fires another arrow. He rolls his shoulder, stretches his arm, nocks another arrow.

"I trust that you're not going to kill me right now, but I'm sure you've already deduced that." The pen doesn't stop moving. Clint follows the motion, notes that Agent Coulson has nice handwriting. Small, neat, easy to read. It doesn't crowd the lines, and he leaves enough space between periods and the next word to easily tell when a sentence ends.

"I have." Clint shoots the target furthest away from him. His arrow lands a touch off center, but it's still a kill shot. "I don't know why though."

"Does that bother you?" The pen continues to scratch. Clint's not sure if he should be angry that he's being given only part of the man's attention or impressed at how well Agent Coulson can multi-task.

"I like being informed."

The corners of Agent Coulson's lips twitch like he's trying not to smile. "That's a good quality."

"Are you evaluating me?"

Coulson's definitely smiling now. "Already did. It's why I shot you to wound not to kill. It's why I brought you in."

Clint doesn't like that he's been watched without his knowledge. He's the one who watches, who observes.

"I'm done for the day."

Clint gives his weapons to Agent Coulson to lock up and disappears. He stays in medical, not violating his clearance, but he hides in the drop ceiling until he feels calm enough to climb down and sleep. He doesn't tell the doctors where he's been and eventually they stop asking.

* * *

Clint has to do some physical therapy for his leg. It lasts two weeks and then he's finally cleared to leave. As soon as he's signed his discharge papers, Agent Coulson appears with his bow.

Clint takes it and the implications that come with it. "Where do you need me?"

Agent Coulson's eyes widen a fraction of an inch, the closest to surprise Clint's ever seen him express. It's an involuntary emotion, one Clint's sure he hadn't meant to show, and Clint takes pride in the fact that he's elicited it.

"You've decided to join?"

Clint shakes his head. "You provided me with medical treatment, food, lodging, and rehab. You delivered my bow personally. You expect payment, and we both know what I'm good for."

"Ah." Coulson's face smoothes out again. "We shot you, it's our responsibility to patch you up. You owe SHIELD nothing."

Clint's offered, and Coulson's rejected and as far as Clint's concerned they're even. Clint smiles and heads out.

He ignores the voice in the back of his mind that tells him that he should stay. There was a roof over his head and there was always food available when he was hungry, and he'd been able to sleep even though there were people around, because he was safe. He shouldn't give it up, but he needs to find Barney and Trick.

He needs to put himself out in the open so they can come to him, so he can

* * *

tell them that he's okay. He'll hook up with them again, they'll get back to work, and everything will be fine.

Clint goes to all their old haunts, but there's no sign of them. He leaves messages at each, and he's disappointed with every hour that passes without hearing from them.

He stays at a cheap motel and scours newspapers for any sign of them or where they're going to strike next.

He finds an article that sounds like their work. It's in Manhattan. It's local. They're in town. They have to know he's out. Why haven't they come for him or let him know where to find them?

* * *

A week after Clint leaves SHIELD he finds two ticket stubs for a Greyhound bus. He knows they've been left on purpose. Trick and Barney's way to say that they've left and to stop looking.

Clint collapses on the motel bed in the room he'd tracked them to. They've left him, and he's alone now.

Clint doesn't know what to do so he gets up and showers. As he's stripping he notices the pink scar on his thigh. He touches the raised skin, runs his fingers over the mark. He'd been shot by a man in a suit, but he'd been shot non-fatally, because the man wanted him alive.

Clint's index finger circles the edge of the scar, and he presses his thumb against proof that someone wants him. Clint pulls his jeans back on and heads out the door.

* * *

It takes six hours before Agent Coulson comes up to Clint's perch.

"Any reason you have a sniper rifle trained on the entrance to SHIELD?" Agent Coulson asks.

Clint pops the rifle open to show that there are no bullets inside. "Your security is shit. I could've killed several important people in your agency in the time it took you to realize I was here."

Agent Coulson crouches down next to Clint, ignoring the fact that he's wrinkling his suit and probably getting roof dust on it. "You're right. Does this mean you've rethought joining our agency?"

"Do you still want me?"

The corners of Agent Coulson's eyes crinkle in a smile, and he reaches out a hand. "Welcome to SHIELD."


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: A few more references to child abuse

A/N: I finished the rough draft yesterday! Which means there should be updates every other day

* * *

It doesn't take Clint long to learn the important things. He learns who to call 'sir' and who to call 'agent'. He learns how Agent Coulson likes his coffee (one sugar, half a creamer and it's not a waste, because he always has two cups at a time), and he learns when the best time to go to the break room to get fresh food and coffee is. He goes early in the morning, and he eats a banana and a muffin hidden in a corner or the ceiling while Agent Sitwell makes coffee.

As soon as the coffee's done and Sitwell's disappeared with his mug, Clint pours two cups and brings them to Agent Coulson. Clint doesn't drink coffee, because it leaves him jittery, and he likes to have complete control over his body.

Clint learns what food in the mess is safe to eat and what to avoid. He learns when to go so it isn't crowded, and he learns which table gives him the best view of the room. He learns where the best hiding spots are and how to fill out the paperwork that allows him to request extra arrows or more socks when he wears holes through his.

He learns which handlers he likes overseeing his training, and he learns how to work with other agents. They're wary of him, because he's new and he has a reputation, but he learns how to break through the shell and soon he has people to sit with when he goes to lunch.

* * *

It takes Clint longer to learn the smaller, but also important things. Likes where the lines are and which ones he can cross. Some are easy. He gets his range access revoked if he goes into restricted areas so he only does that once.

The first time Clint doesn't fill his paperwork out to perfection, Agent Coulson pulls him aside and re-explains how to fill out the form. The second time, his request doesn't get filled, and Clint washes his hair with soap for a week before he realizes. He submits a request for shampoo, correctly, and the next day he gets a bottle of SHIELD issued shampoo.

One day, Clint puts a whole creamer in Coulson's coffee. The next day, when Clint arrives with coffee, Coulson already has a mug on his desk, and Clint doesn't get a small smile and soft 'thank you' for delivering coffee. Clint pretends he doesn't care.

* * *

Clint works with several agents and several handlers, but Agent Coulson is the one who found Clint, who gave him this chance, so Clint has always been closest to him.

They meet once a week to go down to the shooting range so Coulson can evaluate Clint's progress or they spar in the gym or Coulson spots Clint as he lifts. Sometimes they go for runs together and on busy weeks, Clint just sits in Coulson's office while he does paperwork.

Four weeks into Clint's probationary period, he shows up late to their weekly meeting.

Coulson flicks his gaze up when Clint comes in then looks back down at his paper work. "You can leave, Agent Barton."

Clint hesitates for a moment, gauging whether or not Agent Coulson is serious. When Coulson doesn't look up again, Clint leaves.

He's never late again.

* * *

Clint thrives under the structure of his days at SHIELD. He wakes up, has breakfast in the break room ceiling, brings coffee to Coulson, does his morning workout, eats lunch with some other probies, sits through the day's class (sometimes strategy, sometimes tech updates, sometimes a refresher on the status of various countries across the globe) and then it's group training, and he's released to shower and eat dinner.

After dinner, his time is his own. Clint usually spend some of it down at the range, working with new guns, but always spending at least fifteen minutes unwinding with his bow. After that he putters around or reads or finds some way to amuse himself until it's time to sleep so he can wake up and do it again.

He thought he'd get bored.

He doesn't.

He trains and gets better, watching video of himself to search for weaknesses, for things to improve. He learns to joke with his fellow agents, and he slowly accumulates information about their lives without revealing too much of his own.

Sometimes, Clint gets nostalgic, and he searches the internet for signs of Trick and Barney. Sometimes, he gets restless and he pokes at the lines, but Agent Coulson never snaps, he just looks vaguely disapproving, and Clint doesn't like that so he finds new lines to push. He goes for a cheap shot during sparring and gets Agent Nitman to throw a real punch that ends in a scuffle that gets them both sent to the cool down corners which the other agents refer to as the time out chairs whenever the senior agents aren't around.

Usually days like those end with Clint in bed, tracing the scar on his leg. It's a visible reminder that he's wanted, that someone wanted him here enough to watch him, track him, and not kill him.

The day after, Clint is subdued, and he never apologizes, but he'll do other things. Bring Coulson a banana nut muffin with his coffee or put a brownie in Agent Nitman's locker.

* * *

On Clint's 1-year anniversary of being a SHIELD agent, he gets his first assignment. He heads out to the Sudan to do some intel gathering. He spends three days crouched in a small space with nothing but a comm. in his ear to keep him entertained.

Coulson reads _Robin Hood_ to Clint until his voice starts to go and then he apologizes and takes a break, because if there's a crisis then he's going to need his voice. Clint talks to Coulson while he recovers, telling him about all the different Robin Hood movies Clint's seen, the different legends he's read, what they have in common, what Clint thinks is bullshit.

Clint emerges from the mission, sore, with more information than he wanted on their target's masturbation habits, and the uncomfortable realization that Agent Coulson has a very calming voice. Clint thinks he could've sat still and listened to him for hours.

* * *

Clint goes on several intelligence gathering missions before he realizes that this is the life of a SHIELD agent. He'd signed on thinking they wanted an assassin, a person they could point and shoot like a weapon, but there aren't that many people in the world that need to be killed.

Clint doesn't kill his first target until his fourth mission. It's an easy kill. He's up high, eyes on the caravan that's carrying the target, and when he steps out to take a piss, Clint fires. He watches the target go down, stays to make sure the heat signature fades and then he packs up and heads to the rendezvous point.

Agent Coulson is there when Clint arrives, in the same suit Clint always sees him in. Clint wonders why all the clothes, especially in the desert. Is it some kind of armor? Does he have bad scarring? Identifying marks?

Clint doesn't know, but he understands that he's not supposed to know so he doesn't ask questions.

They debrief on the trip back to save time. Agent Coulson keeps looking at Clint like he's expecting something, but Clint doesn't know what it is. He should. He should know what all the looks mean, he should know what he needs to give, but he doesn't, and it's frustrating.

Finally, after the report has been filled out, Coulson asks, "Are you sure you're all right?" He looks at Clint's hands.

Oh. Clint smiles, easy, confident. "I prefer my bow, but I understand that it's easy to identify. Guns make more sense for missions like these."

Agent Coulson's eyebrow lifts, and he opens his mouth before pressing it shut. Clint shrugs and slips up front to watch the pilot. He knows he has to pass a test and all this annoying stuff in order to be able to fly the plane, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to know how it works right now.

* * *

Mission ten is long term. Agent Coulson and Clint are sent to do intel gathering and then take out the target if he proves to be a threat. Their home base is stacked with nonperishables so they don't have to go shopping or really ever leave except to do the watching. The less they interact with their environment, the less of a chance they'll be compromised.

"This is the worst part of long missions," Agent Coulson says as he heats up soup on the stove. "Kills my diet. High sodium soup and processed foods."

Clint hums his agreement, and they sit down and eat soup and canned peas and go over what they already know about the target.

They're staying in a small apartment-thing and it has a kitchen/living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. Clint's stayed with fellow operatives on missions before but never his handler, and after dinner he's unsure of what to do, because he doesn't know the protocol in this situation.

"I'll do the dishes," Coulson says. "You can have first shower."

"You cooked," Clint says and he picks up Coulson's bowl and brings it to the sink. "That means I do the dishes."

Coulson nods and heads back to the shower. Clint takes his time with the dishes, washing them thoroughly, drying them, putting them away, and by the time he's done, Coulson is out of the shower and in his pajamas. He's in the bed closest to the bathroom, flipping through _Portnoy's Complaint_.

Clint doesn't ask questions. He grabs his pajamas, standard issued shorts and a pain white t-shirt and heads to the bathroom. He takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and heads out to the second bed.

He flicks a look at Coulson, but he appears to be engrossed in his book. Clint slips a knife under his mattress (he learned not to keep one under his pillow after the time he cut his hand open), and puts a second knife in his right shoe, which he keeps next to the bed.

Clint then goes through the small apartment, checking every lock and looking out every window. Convinced that he's as safe as he's going to be, Clint climbs into bed.

"Want me to turn off the light?" Coulson asks.

Clint thinks of the years falling asleep while his dad raged about the kitchen. He thinks of the years napping between circus acts, while the strongman got drunk with the bearded woman or while the conjoined twins took a man out back to show him a good time.

"The light's fine."

Clint curls up and clutches his blankets to his chest. He opens one eye, looks at Coulson sitting up in bed, smiling at something in the book, and Clint closes his eye, feeling something warm curl up inside him.

* * *

The morning is awkward. They bump into each other making breakfast, hesitate over who uses the bathroom first, get in each other's way while they're trying to brush their teeth, and Clint's grateful when he gets outside, because there's plenty of space outside.

Clint's happy to scramble up the rooftop and leap from one building to the next. He wishes America was like this. He thinks that he'd probably have broken his bones a lot more as a child if it was.

Clint spends the day observing their target, a man suspected of selling Stark Weapons to terrorists. Clint takes note of where he gets his breakfast (an American chain), how he likes his coffee (two sugars, one cream), what he orders (pancakes, eggs, bacon, blueberry syrup). He files away which waitress serves him, the looks they exchange.

It's like this all day, shadowing him, taking note of everything. Tomorrow, Clint will follow him again and see if there are any patterns. It takes fifteen minutes for Clint to identify the man's bodyguard. It takes him another ten to realize that there's a second bodyguard. Clint keeps an eye out for anymore surprises.

On the way back to the apartment, Clint pays a local girl to go into the market and buy some things for him.

* * *

Coulson had been out meeting with a potential informant, and Clint has dinner ready when he comes back. It's rice and beans and something like a tortilla, and Clint puts the spicy sauce to the side, because he doesn't know how Coulson feels about it.

"Smells good," Coulson says. He pauses when he sees dinner laid out. "We're not supposed to be going to shops."

"I didn't," Clint says and he thinks that tomorrow he'll make dinner for himself while Coulson's gone and Coulson can eat bland soup.

Coulson sits down and starts eating. He chews thoughtfully, adds some sauce, takes another bite, and then he smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he digs in. Clint thinks that maybe he'll hazard cooking again tomorrow.

"Your file didn't mention you could cook," Coulson says working through his second helping.

"It's not something I broadcast."

Coulson nods and doesn't push. Clint's not sure if Coulson realizes the gesture for what it is, but Clint certainly isn't going to explain that he's cooked dinner to show that he trusts Coulson and because he wants to impress him.

They finish up dinner, and Clint's taking his plate to the sink when Coulson holds his hands out for the plate, another smile on his face. "You cooked. I believe that means I do the dishes, and you get first shower."

Clint hands his plate over and heads to the bathroom. There are so many things for him to think about that he doesn't know where to start. He got two smiles during dinner which is more than he usually gets in a day, and he thinks it's dangerous how happy it makes him that he can get Coulson to smile. He also thinks it's stupid that he's sighing over smiles like he's a middle school girl.

Clint gets into the shower and stops thinking.

* * *

Coulson's informant turns out to be a double agent.

Clint doesn't find this out until he's been kidnapped from his post and hauled to a small shed on the outskirts of the city. He's tied to a chair, and a man who isn't the informant or their target slaps Clint across the face like that will get him to talk.

Clint knows how to be quiet. He knows how to hold in tears and hold back groans. He knows how to swallow screams, how to relax his body so that the blows will hurt less.

The brute takes a break, and Clint slips his bonds, because he'd been trained by Harry Houdini (stage name, his real name was Hank Tipper). It takes more than a hastily done rope job to keep Clint down.

He uses the rope to jump the brute when he comes back, and Clint almost manages to strangle him before the informant rushes in and suddenly it's two against one, and all Clint has is a rope and the enemy has guns and knives.

* * *

When Coulson and the back-up squad burst on the scene, Clint has the target tied to the interrogation chair. The informant is knocked unconscious. The brute is dead. Clint's bleeding from a light head wound, and a bullet's grazed his arm, and he's been stabbed in the stomach, but nothing's life threatening.

"You should've waited," Coulson says as a medic does a quick patch job, enough to hold over until they're back at SHIELD. "Played along until I came for you."

Clint's never learned to wait for help. Help has never come. It's always been Clint and his will against his father. He's the one doing the rescuing, saving mother or Barney, and the punishment ends when father is bored or thinks enough has been dealt out.

"I did something wrong?" Clint secured the target and a secondary prisoner and had only killed one person. He'd even managed to keep everything quiet which meant minimal clean-up.

"No." Coulson looks like he wants to say something else, but he just waves the medic off, and Clint's escorted towards the car that will take him to the jet that's waiting to take him to SHIELD.

* * *

When they get back, Clint gets a letter from Director Fury. It's on official SHIELD paper, and it commends him for thinking outside the box, for living up to the expectations of a SHIELD agent.

Clint spends two days getting high-fives and back slaps from fellow agents, and at every meal he's asked to recount what happened when he was kidnapped.

After two days, Agent Sitwell comes back from an op with Agents Lee and Ngyuyen, and they have stories about getting lost in the desert and drinking their own piss and fighting off HYDRA when they were hallucinating, and Clint can comfortably fade into the background again.

Coulson doesn't stop giving Clint strange looks when he doesn't think Clint is looking, but Clint doesn't know what to make of them.

* * *

Clint doesn't realize Coulson's been observing his training sessions until one day, after a particularly brutal team exercise, when Coulson comes up to him after Clint emerges from the locker room. Clint's hair is still damp from the shower, and he's in jeans and a SHIELD standard issue black tee and getting ready to head to dinner when Coulson intercepts him.

"I'm ordering Italian," Coulson says.

"Okay."

Coulson's lips press together for a brief moment. "I'm not sure whether you're being obtuse or whether you really didn't realize that was an invitation."

"It's not Thursday," Clint says, but he walks with Coulson up towards his office anyways.

"I realize that."

Clint shrugs. "Thursday is the day we do something."

Coulson takes a moment longer than usual to put his foot down. "It's always Thursday?"

Clint nods.

"I," Coulson pauses so Clint stops and looks at him. "I don't schedule you in like meetings or debriefings."

"Okay." Clint doesn't expect special treatment. He certainly wants it. He wants Coulson to single him out, to have dinner with him, to joke with him over coffee, to let him fall asleep on his couch, because Clint is special, because he's different, but Clint doesn't need those things. He has a bullet wound and that's enough except for late at night when Clint finds himself wanting more.

"I just happen to have more free time on Thursdays." Coulson starts walking again.

"I don't mind routine." And by that, Clint means he's desperate for Coulson's attention, and he'll take it any way he can get it, even if Clint's name is scribbled next to the 10-10:30 slot on Thursdays.

"Routine can make you complacent. Sloppy."

Routine can also make you comfortable and safe, but Clint doesn't say that. Instead, he nods and wonders how he can mix up his routines so they stop being so, well, routine.

* * *

They're finishing dinner, Clint's eating the last piece of garlic bread, Coulson's eating the last half piece of chicken parm, when Coulson sets his fork down and looks over at Clint, and Clint knows they're about to have a _talk_. He wonders if this was a trap or if the food was a bribe. He doesn't like thinking of Coulson plotting like that, but he is a government agent. Plotting is part of the job description.

"You don't trust people," Coulson says.

Clint shoves the rest of garlic bread into his mouth, mostly because he wants to finish it before they get sucked into a long conversation but partly because it's a good distraction.

"It means your attention is divided. You're attacking the enemy and trying to watch your back at the same time. Your team is there to protect you. It's your job to take out the enemy."

"We did fine," Clint says. They'd defeated the simulation and in record time.

"You won't always."

Clint takes a drink of water. "You can't tell me to trust someone and expect it to happen. I can follow a lot of orders. That isn't one of them."

"I know, but you've been here a long time. Are you making efforts?"

Clint thinks of missions spent in cramped rooms and how Clint manages to cook even if all they have is a Bunsen burner. He thinks of the nights he knows Coulson's skipped dinner because of an important report or because he's trying to get a briefing finished for a sensitive mission and how Clint sometimes cooks for him and brings him food, coaxing him to eat. He thinks of the first time he fell asleep in Coulson's office, stretched out on the small two person couch and how he hadn't had to check the room before feeling safe enough to sleep.

Clint meets Coulson's stare straight on. "Yes."

Coulson stops cutting his chicken, and Clint watches as he runs through months of data in his head, searching for the evidence to back up Clint's claim.

After a moment, Coulson's eyes refocus. "Continue making them."

Clint doesn't get a smile which means Coulson didn't figure it out, didn't realize that Coulson's the one Clint's chosen to trust.

"Okay. Will that be all, sir?"

At Coulson's nod, Clint throws away the trash from dinner and leaves Coulson to finish his chicken and his reports alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Warnings: Mentions of past bullying, a brief scene with sexual content

* * *

The day Clint is promoted from probationary agent to junior agent, Coulson gives him a cupcake and a form to request off-premises housing.

Clint ignores the cupcake as he looks over the form. "You're kicking me out?" Clint likes his quarters. They're big enough that he doesn't feel trapped and small enough that he doesn't feel overwhelmed or like he has too much space and not enough to fill it. They're safe and secure, and he doesn't understand why they want him to leave.

"Don't be melodramatic," Coulson says. "It's an offer, not an order. You make enough to afford a decent apartment in the city."

"I like my quarters. I have easy access to everything." It's only a few minutes walk to get to the shooting range or the mess hall or the gyms. Everyone he knows is in the building. There's nothing outside for him. He doesn't see why he should leave.

Coulson eyes Clint speculatively. "Usually we have to talk to agents about not getting too involved in the outside world. I think we might have to have the opposite talk with you."

"I've seen the outside world." Clint thinks of nights huddled under his blankets, careful not to lie on his back because of the red welts he has. He thinks of the kids making fun of him in school, because he stuttered and stumbled whenever he read aloud. He thinks of the circus where he was welcome inside and considered a freak outside. He thinks of Barney and Trick, somewhere in the world, living without him. "It has nothing to offer me."

"All right." Coulson takes the form back when Clint offers it. "Are you going to eat the cupcake or do you have something against those as well?"

A brief smile flits across Clint's face and then he looks at the cupcake, obviously homemade, the chocolate frosting evenly spread across the top. "There's only one."

Coulson raises an eyebrow, but he looks amused. "You only get two when you graduate from Junior Agent to Agent."

Clint smiles and pulls the wrapper off. He takes off the bottom half of the cupcake and puts it on top, a trick he learned in elementary school to keep from getting frosting everywhere. It also makes it easier to break the cupcake in half, and he hands a half to Coulson.

"No point in celebrating on my own," Clint says, ducking his head when Coulson looks at him with surprise.

"I suppose not," Coulson says and he takes a delicate bite of his cupcake, careful not to get any crumbs on his suit or frosting on his face.

* * *

The next month there's a small ceremony where Director Fury gives a speech and Agent Hill gives Lee, Jones, Marshall, and Clint a medal with the SHIELD logo. They're not allowed to bring it off base, and Clint tucks it into his nightstand, between the knife and the gun he keeps there for emergencies.

What he wishes for most, though, is a picture of Coulson's face when Agent Hill handed Clint his medal. He looked proud, pleasure crinkling the corners of his eyes, causing his lips to turn up in the barest of smiles. He'd met Clint's eyes and given a nod of acknowledgement, and Clint had grinned in return.

* * *

Clint's first mission as a junior agent is with Marshall, and Sitwell's on point. Clint likes Marshall well enough; though, the guy is into explosives and Clint prefers the precision of an arrow or a bullet.

Still, he's a good agent and a good guy to work with. They share the small apartment with no problems, even if they don't cook dinner for each other or make small talk before bed. The small touches of familiarity aren't necessary for Clint to do his job, and he does his intel gathering and checks in with Sitwell and within four days they're ready to make their move.

The target is a dealer in explosives which means Marshall is going in for a meet, to try and figure out where the drop is going to be. Clint's positioned across the street, keeping an eye on the area to make sure nothing sneaks up on Marshall.

Clint gets to the café half an hour before the meet. He has a netbook and a notebook, and a thick volume of the 20th century's best poetry. His cover is that he's a creative writing student, working on his poetry final. It gives him an excuse to spend an extended amount of time in a café, and to stare off into space while he scans the area for threats.

He has an earbud in one ear, the other dangles down. There's no music playing, but after a moment, he hears the crackle of static then Sitwell's voice.

"You got eyes on the area?"

"Yes. Three suspicious persons. Everything else is clear."

"Positions?"

"Busboy at the restaurant, cab driver on the street, and paper boy."

"I've got visual on all three. Keep me updated."

Clint scans the area then looks back down at his book of poetry. He's opened up to Sylvia Plath and _Daddy_ stares out at him from the page.

He quickly turns the page and lands on _The Dead_. He thinks he should probably move to a different poet unless he wants to end thoroughly depressed by the end of this mission.

* * *

"Report," Sitwell says.

"The three are definitely scouts. There's a sniper up on the roof. He has a bad angle, but he could probably make the shot. Marshall is giving the all clear."

* * *

"Sylvia Plath?" A young woman sits down next to Clint, a large coffee clutched in her small hands. She's wearing a brightly colored scarf, and she has a large, bright smile as she looks at Clint's open book of poetry.

"Paper," Clint says. "Not my choice."

"I didn't peg you for a Plath guy."

"I prefer creative nonfiction to poetry," Clint says and the girl nods, understanding.

"You should give Pam Houston a try. She's my new favorite." The girl looks up, and her shoulders sag a little as she spots the young man standing in the doorway. "Well, I have to go. Good luck with your paper. And remember, sticking your head in an oven is never the solution."

She gives Clint one last smile and then disappears. Clint looks back over at Marshall. He's signing the location for the meet.

"We're in," Clint says.

"You need to stick around for a day or two?" Sitwell teases. "Looks like you might have a date."

"The drop is tonight. The bar down out past the city. Eight o'clock."

"I see why you and Coulson work so well together. Neither of you have a sense of humor."

* * *

The drop doesn't go as planned, but it's still successful. They get the shipment of explosives and the name of the head of the operation, but Marshall gets shot, and three of the others guys end up dead.

Clint fills out his field report, noting Marshall's wound, how Clint could've prevented it if he was faster or more aware (just more), how Clint had killed two guards within seconds of Marshall going down.

At the end, in the additional comments box, Clint adds _Dying is an art, like everything else_.

The next time Clint goes to Coulson's office, he finds _Lady Lazarus_ printed off and half buried under a pile of reports.

* * *

Clint's first romantic assignment comes three months into being a junior agent. Most of his intel gathering is done from observing or becoming a waiter or a paper boy or something inconspicuous where he can observe without being observed.

Nikolai Manitoba is different. He's a man who likes pretty things and somehow Clint has been selected as a pretty thing. He doesn't understand why he's chosen over Lee who has an androgynous beauty to his face or Jones who has long dark lashes and can be sweet and demure when he tries to be.

Clint knows better than to say no to an assignment even though he questions why he's been chosen, but all Coulson says is _I wouldn't have picked you if I didn't think you could do it_ and that's all Clint needs to hear before he's heading down to get fitted for a new wardrobe.

* * *

Manitoba is rumored to be dealing with the IRA, and supposedly his name used to be Sean Patrick, and he lives in a fancy house in Boston, and Clint goes in as Charles Binsen, a young man who wants to be part of a life that's more exciting than the one he lives.

Clint's in clothes that try and look expensive, but anyone with a good eye can see that they're cheap, and he smiles too bright, and laughs a touch too loud, and he knows that he's looking like he's trying too hard, but he's also eyeing the décor, and Nikolai with obvious appreciation and interest. He hopes it's enough for him to capture Nikolai's attention.

* * *

It takes a half hour longer than Coulson predicted for Clint to get dragged up to Nikolai's wing. Clint's brought to a room that isn't the main bedroom, but the sheets are still nicer than anything Clint's ever felt.

Clint's sprawled out across the bed, and Nikolai is stalking towards him, intent clear in the way his eyes sweep over Clint's body, imagining it without the suit, in the way he shrugs out of his jacket.

Clint's heart is hammering in his chest, his pulse is picking up, and it's nerves more than arousal, but it'll work well enough to fool Nikolai. Clint hasn't done anything like this since joining SHIELD. Since Barney and Trick left, his mind unhelpfully corrects. He never did this with Barney or Trick, but he couldn't bring himself to trust another person enough to let them get this close since they left.

Tonight isn't about trust, though. It's about a mission, about Clint being a good agent, and he can do this.

A knock at the door stops Nikolai when he's at the edge of the bed, poised to reach down and grab Clint.

A moment later, the door swings open and a waiter Clint recognizes as a junior agent comes in with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

"I thought you would like this," he stutters, eyes flitting from Clint to Nikolai, doing a good of pretending to be nervous. He sets the tray down on the table, slipping a bug behind the lamp in the process.

Clints leans back against the pillows and closes his eyes. Everything that happens in this room is going to be recorded. Coulson's going to be listening to everything that happens. Sitwell too, probably. It doesn't really help him with his nerves.

"A bit of advice?" Nikolai turns to the agent. "Don't think, just do as you're told."

The agent nods and runs out of the room.

"Idiot," Nikolai mutters even as he turns to the champagne and pours himself a glass.

Clint gets to his feet and kicks off his shoes. When Nikolai turns back around, Clint's slipping out of his jacket, and the man raises his eyebrows.

"In a rush?"

Clint lets a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "You invite people over for lavish parties and instead of networking, you stand in a corner and watch them interact. Your ballroom is full of chandeliers and elaborate picture frames." Clint brings his fingers to the buttons of his shirt. "You like a good show."

Nikolai looks at Clint with renewed interest, and he leans back against the mahogany dresser. He waves his hand for Clint to continue, and Clint grins and starts undoing his buttons. He lived in a circus for a good portion of his life. When he wants to, he can put on a good performance.

He shrugs his shirt off, letting it slide to the floor, and he raises his hands over his head and stretches, calling attention to the smooth line of his torso, the ridges of his abs, the subtle muscle he's been developing since he joined SHIELD.

He sees Nikolai's eyes roam, appreciative, then flick down to Clint's pants. Clint grins and slowly strips, showing off sleek muscle and the grace years of acrobatics have given him.

Nikolai is still leaning against the dresser, casually drinking his champagne so Clint doesn't stop once he's naked. He lies down on the bed and bends his knees, planting his feet on the comforter. He meets Nikolai's eyes shamelessly and drops his hand between his legs.

Nikolai's eyes darken, and Clint grins, and tilts his hips up as his hand runs up and down his shaft. He's watched himself in a mirror often enough to know what he looks like when he does this, and he bites his bottom lip as he squeezes, and when he next looks at Nikolai, Clint's eyes are hooded and his lips are swollen, and Nikolai takes a longer sip of champagne.

"You are gorgeous," he says, his voice deep with pleasure.

Clint grins and arches off the bed, showing off the smooth line of his body. He closes his eyes, and his mouth falls open as his strokes quicken, and in a few moments he comes, his body shaking as he collapses back against the pillows.

Clint blinks his eyes open, his mind hazy with pleasure, his muscles screaming at him to relax now and sleep.

Nikolai sets his glass down and takes two steps forward, his hands reaching for his pants when he pitches forward and falls face first into the ground.

Clint grins and goes to the bathroom to wash up before hauling Nikolai into bed. He tucks him in and grabs the bug before going to search through Nikolai's study for evidence linking him to the IRA.

* * *

They arrest Nikolai while he's still passed out, and he comes to in an interrogation room with Agent Coulson sitting calmly across the table for him, asking him how much he values his life.

* * *

In celebration of a mission done well, Clint, Coulson, Sitwell, and Agent Klein go out for drinks.

"That solo show was pretty genius," Klein says as he hands out beers, the first round on him as the youngest agent at the table.

"Not sure I trust anything you give me," Sitwell jokes, eyeing the beer for a moment before taking a swig. "But yeah," Sitwell turns to Clint. "Good thinking there."

Clint shrugs, takes a sip of his beer. "Didn't want him passing out mid-fuck. Would do terrible things for my self-esteem."

Sitwell and Klein laugh. Coulson eyes Clint like he's seeing something behind Clint's answer, like he's seeing the truth. Clint resists the urge to shake off the look. Instead, he meets Coulson's eyes across the table, a challenging smile tugging at his lips.

"What about you, Agent Coulson? You like the show?"

Coulson rolls his eyes as Klein spits out his beer, unable to believe Clint's said something like that to a senior agent. Sitwell laughs and claps Klein on the back.

"We only had audio," Coulson says, "and you're quiet."

It isn't a no, Clint thinks, and he holds Coulson's gaze a moment longer than necessary before turning to Klein. "Hear that? You should've put a camera in with the bug. Things to remember for next time."

Clint takes a long drink and ignores the heavy weight of Coulson's eyes on him.

* * *

A week after the Manitoba case, Coulson calls Clint into his office, and as soon as Clint gets there he knows it's going to be serious. There's no cup of hot chocolate or baked goods waiting for him, because Coulson doesn't believe in bribing Clint with food, because he thinks it'll cause Clint to develop a negative association.

Clint appreciates that he can know the moment he walks through the door what kind of conversation they'll be having.

"You almost never leave base," Coulson says without preamble. He also doesn't believe in small talk or gently guiding Clint into serious subjects. Another thing Clint appreciates.

"We've already discussed this."

Coulson sets his papers aside and gives Clint his full attention. "You don't interact with other people outside of SHIELD and you aren't involved with anyone within SHIELD."

It takes Clint a moment to realize that they're talking about his sex life. "Is everything I do or don't do your business?"

"Your mental health is important."

"And sex has to do with my mental health?"

"Yes."

Clint wants to huff and storm out, but he knows Coulson will bring this up tomorrow and the next day and every day after until they deal with it.

"I'm fine."

"You're a young adult," Coulson says. "You should be having regular sex."

Clint can't believe they're actually having this conversation. And that neither of them are blushing. "I do. It's even varied. I'm sure you know, but I'm ambidextrous." Clint leers, but Coulson doesn't look ruffled.

"You don't need to rely on yourself for everything," Coulson says.

Clint flinches from the truth, and he knows he's given himself away, and he hates that Coulson can play him like this. It makes him want to reach across the desk and pull Coulson to his feet and punch him. Instead, Clint locks his hands behind his back.

"As I said, sir," he stresses the title, "I'm fine."

Coulson doesn't say anything, just fixes Clint with his infuriating 'I can wait until you see that I'm right' look. Clint growls and lunges forward, his hands braced on the edge of Coulson's desk.

"What am I supposed to do, then? Walk up to one of the agents and say, hey Coulson thinks you should wrap your hand around my dick?"

"Not the best pick-up line I've heard," Coulson says, "but it might be effective depending on who you ask."

Clint leans forward, but Coulson doesn't back down. "What about you, sir? Where do you get your regular sex?"

"None of your concern."

"Right." Clint laughs and pulls back. "Because every detail of my life is exposed to you, but that doesn't go both ways. What's wrong, sir, you don't trust me?"

"Barton," Coulson begins, but Clint's already backing out of his office.

"Don't worry, Agent Coulson, I'll get laid tonight. Want me to video tape it, send you the recording so you can make sure it's up to SHIELD's standards?" Clint's in the hallway now and shouting, and he knows people are staring at him, but he doesn't care.

He flips Coulson off and storms down the hallway, not even bothering to shut Coulson's door.

* * *

That night, Clint goes to the club and goes home with some guy and fucks him into the mattress. He doesn't learn the man's name, doesn't look at him while they're together.

He's in a shitty mood all week.

* * *

"You're the only person I know who doesn't loosen up when they get laid," Sitwell says conversationally, over morning coffee.

Clint glares into his glass of water. He didn't want to talk about this with Coulson, and he certainly doesn't want to talk about it with Sitwell.

"Even Coulson's looser after a night out."

This conversation hasn't taken a turn for the better.

"Is my sex life a common topic in SHIELD?"

Sitwell shakes his head. "Coulson's your overseeing agent so he talks about it with psych, and I'm a nosy bastard so sometimes I join in, but I think everyone else thinks you're some sort of sex god. It's the arms."

"Huh." Clint takes a sip of his water. "Are you here to actually talk about something or just be a dick?"

Sitwell grins. "Both. I want you and Ngyuyen working together on a mission."

* * *

The mission's pretty straightforward. Clint's going in to arrange a meet so they can kill the mob boss and his associates, Ngyuyen is his backup.

Clint goes into the casino, and he gets pulled into the back for a security pat down. They find the knife Clint thought he'd hidden, and Clint gets beat up pretty bad, and soon he's looking up at the barrel of a gun.

Big mistake.

Clint disarms the guy, shoots two body guards and the mob boss, and he gets pinned by an associate, and there's knife to his throat when Ngyuyen and Sitwell burst in, guns firing, but Clint's positive he could've made it out.

Coulson isn't. And he's pissed.

"What were you thinking?" Coulson demands. His voice is raised, and his fingers are twitching like they want to be wrapped around Clint's neck. It's the most emotion Clint's ever seen from him. "You were told to go in without weapons."

Clint stands at attention, waiting for Coulson to stop yelling and dismiss him.

"Ngyuyen had a knife hidden in the room for you to use."

"I wasn't sure he would be able to plant it. I wasn't going in there without anything."

Coulson takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his thinning hair. "This is what I was talking about when I told you you needed to start trusting people. Ngyuyen planted the knife, and you almost got yourself killed, because you didn't trust him."

Clint shrugs. "I made it out alive."

Coulson bites down on his scream of frustration. "You won't always be so lucky. You're working with me until I think you can work safely with others. Dismissed."

Clint goes back to his room and puts an icepack on his black eye.

* * *

A month into Clint's "punishment", Coulson gets hurt on an op. It's nothing Clint could have prevented, but it doesn't stop him from blaming himself, and it means that Coulson is on mandatory medical leave for a month. He's not allowed to go out into the field; though, he's still allowed to plan and run ops.

Clint gets transferred to Sitwell, and they go off to Peru to spy on a man who apparently is growing coca leaves and turning them into cocaine and then smuggling it into the United States.

They spend two weeks poking around Peru, and Clint thinks that if Coulson was with him they'd take an extra few days and backpack to Macchu Picchu. And then Clint remembers that Coulson's angry with him so they probably wouldn't have done it anyways. Maybe Clint will head down here if he ever gets vacation time.

* * *

They debrief in Coulson's office and Clint ignores the cane resting against Coulson's desk, because if Clint can't see it then he can pretend that Coulson is fine and not recovering from a leg fracture.

"How'd it go?" Coulson asks Sitwell, which is much friendlier than the 'report' Clint gets hit with after missions. He wonders how long Coulson and Sitwell have known each other. Had they served as junior agents together? Clint can't imagine ever being this friendly with Klein or Marshall or Lee.

"Oh fine," Sitwell says. "Hung out in Cuzco, met some alpacas. Nothing too strenuous."

"Agent Barton make you ceviche?"

Sitwell turns to Clint, an eyebrow raised, and a twinkling in his eyes that doesn't bode well for Clint. "You cook for Coulson and not me? I'm hurt."

Clint glares at Coulson, and Coulson looks at Sitwell then Clint, shock blooming on his face. He quickly recovers, turning a small smile on Sitwell.

"Guess you're just a second rate handler. Wonder if I can use that as an excuse to get medical to move up my date for returning to active duty."

"Second rate? If you weren't on the DL, I would take you down to the gym and beat your ass."

They fall into comfortable banter, and Clint slips out and heads down to his room.

* * *

A/N: Total English nerd/writer moment. I picked Sylvia Plath, because she's pretty well known, and Clint has daddy issues that don't rival hers, but still, it was nice nod, and then I was clicking on some of her random poems and I discovered _Lady Lazarus_, and that line was wonderful, and there was an even better one that'll show up later in the story, and it's one of those things that just works and ties the story together, and it was a complete accident that I found it, but it added another layer to the story so I'm glad I did, and these are the little things that get me super excited about writing.


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: Violence/minor torture, minor character death

* * *

Coulson's first mission back, he and Clint go to deal with some HYDRA agents. They take out a small weapons factory, but they get cut off from their back-up and a piece of shrapnel slices through Clint's arm.

Coulson stitches the wound with his emergency kit, and they stumble to the safe house to wait for SHIELD to realize that Clint and Coulson haven't made their rendezvous and to come fetch them.

Coulson carefully treats the wound, washing it out three times a day to make sure it doesn't get infected, because if it doesn't heal right then Clint may never fire an arrow again. The fear of becoming useless keeps Clint still, keeps him from complaining when the ointment stings, keeps him following Coulson's strict regimen, keeps him from picking at his stitches.

* * *

The wound turns into a scar, jagged and ugly, and the first time Coulson sees it, he winces and apologizes for the poor stitch job. Clint tells him he doesn't mind, feeds him a line about how Clint's grateful that he's alive, and that's more important than how his scar looks.

The truth is, Clint thinks it's fitting. Scars aren't supposed to be pretty or neat or clean. They're a mark of survival, a permanent part of you that says _I made it through_ and _I'll make it through again_. Clint has quite a collection scars now and together they say _I'm a tough son of a bitch._ He's proud of them.

Clint runs his fingers over the scar every night, a reminder that Coulson thinks he's useful, that Coulson wants him to stay on with SHIELD.

* * *

Clint starts wearing his arm guard to the range, because he doesn't want angry red lines to cover the pink of his scar.

* * *

Clint isn't even on a mission when he gets snatched. He's headed towards the bar to look for his biweekly fuck when someone drops down behind him. A rag is shoved over his face, as Clint is twisting to see his attacker, and he passes out before he can figure it out or fight back.

* * *

He wakes up, disoriented, then pissed that he let his guard down long enough to get kidnapped. He's strapped down to a chair, and his arms are crossed, his wrists tied to his elbows. He tugs at the restraints, but they're strong. He's not sure he can get out of them.

The floor is dirty concrete and the air is chilled which suggests a warehouse or some sort of abandoned building. The windows to his right are dirty and the wood frames are rotting. Definitely abandoned.

"Ah, you're awake. Good. Comfortable?"

Clint turns to see Trick approaching him. Barney's sitting in a chair in the corner, the naked lights not strong enough to completely reach him so his face is obscured. Clint understands how they got the drop on him. His danger senses didn't go off, because they're familiar, because he still trusted them, because he'd wanted them to find him.

This isn't quite the homecoming he'd been hoping for.

"The silent treatment." Trick looks amused. "They teach you that at your fancy new job?"

They're angry that Clint joined SHIELD? Clint wants to point out that they're the ones who left him. They're the ones who abandoned him, who packed up and left even though he was trying to find them. Clint had no friends, no one to turn to, nowhere to go, and SHIELD wanted him. How could he say no to that?

"Relax," Barney says from his corner. "You know how long it takes him to wake up. His brain probably isn't functioning yet."

It takes Clint a matter of seconds to wake up these days. There was a time where he could sleep through the drunken laughter of the circus entertainers, through the rocking of the mermaid's trailer, through the squeal of tires on asphalt. Now, Clint's trained himself to wake up at the flutter of a curtain, at the click of a doorknob turning.

"Government's a good look for you," Barney says. "You look healthy. Bigger than you used to be. They have you working out?"

Clint looks over at Barney. He's half in shadow, but Clint can see the dark circles under his eyes, the paleness on his skin, the way his cheekbones protrude, too sharp from his face. Being criminals or on the run or whatever they are is not a good look for Barney.

Clint wonders what they want from him. Information? Weapons? His help? They have to know that this isn't the way to get it. If Barney had asked, Clint probably would've done anything, but they've snatched him off the street and tied him to a chair like he's nothing, like he's just some nameless guy.

Clint tips his head back and closes his eyes. His bonds are still too tight to get out of. He wonders how long it'll take for SHIELD to notice that he's missing. Clint never stays the night when he goes out, he always returns to SHIELD once he's washed up.

Will an alarm go off in Coulson's room when Clint doesn't come back at 3? Will it go off at 6? Will Coulson just think that Clint's finally found someone to share a meaningful connection with? Will he use that as an excuse not to go looking when Clint doesn't show up for work?

Clint knows he has a predictable pattern. He leaves SHIELD every other Wednesday night and goes to the bar down the street. He picks up a guy, sometimes a woman, and he goes back to their place. He's back in his bunk by two so he's rested enough for training the next day. Clint's night will be easy to trace, it'll be easy to see where it goes wrong. They just have to realize he's gone missing and care enough to find him.

That last one is the key. Will they care enough? Clint's been working with them for a fairly long time, and he likes to think that he's done good work, but they have dozens of agents that can do what he did, and he's still relatively new there. It probably isn't hard to find a sniper to replace him. One that prefers guns like snipers are supposed to.

Besides, time and skill aren't requirements for keeping someone around. If they were, Trick wouldn't have abandoned Clint. Clint had been with Trick longer than he's been with SHIELD, and Trick still dropped him.

And now he's back, because he wants something. Clint doesn't know why Trick thinks he's going to get it. He had Clint's loyalty, had Clint willing to do anything, and he threw it away. Clint's grown up, and he's found someone better to follow.

"Taking a nap?" Trick asks, and his voice is getting closer, his footsteps even as he walks towards Clint. "We not interesting enough for you anymore?"

Clint's head snaps to the side, and he feels a sharp sting before he realizes he's been slapped. He opens his eyes in time to see the next blow coming. He turns his head with the slap, lessening the impact.

"Pain still gets your attention. Good to know." Trick leans in so he's all Clint can see. "Your brother and I are in a spot of trouble. We need some guns. Can you get them for us?"

There's no way Clint's going to steal weapons from SHIELD for Barney and Trick. Well, maybe Barney, and maybe if Clint hadn't been chloroformed and tied to a chair. Certainly not for Trick.

"Guns?" Clint asks, his voice raspy from disuse. "Guns are shit. Thought you were better than that."

Trick's the one who taught Clint how to shoot a bow, the one who practiced with Clint for hours until Clint could hit anything. Clint can't believe Trick's stooped to using guns. Unless they've gotten mixed up in weapons dealing. They're certainly scared enough for that to be the case. And they're obviously desperate if they've pulled Clint in.

Trick hits Clint with a closed fist, hard enough that the chair topples over. Clint hits his head on the ground. The ringing in his ears and the throbbing of the back of his head distracts him from the pain in his nose, but the blood trickling down to Clint's mouth suggests that his nose is probably broken.

"You didn't have to do that," Barney says.

"He's being a smart ass." Trick hauls the chair back up, grunting with the effort. "You're also fat as shit. You've gotten spoiled at your new job."

"Maybe you're just not as strong as you think you are."

Clint relaxes into the next hit and this time when his chair goes down, no one picks him back up. Clint eventually drifts off to sleep, his cheek pressed against the cold floor of wherever they've brought him.

* * *

Clint's woken up by Barney coming into the room. He has a tray with two bowls and a washcloth, but he eases Clint's chair back to four legs before doing anything else. It takes more effort than it should. Clint knows that it isn't because he's heavy; he's put on some muscle weight since joining SHIELD, but Barney's always been strong.

Not anymore, Clint thinks as he looks his brother over. Barney looks tired and underfed, and his arms aren't nearly as defined as they used to be. Clint wonders if Barney realizes that being with Trick is slowly killing him and if Barney wants to get out. Clint hadn't. He'd been too blinded by what Trick was giving him to realize what the man was taking.

"Trick's not doing so well," Barney says as an apology and he reaches out to dab at the dried blood on Clint's face with a damp washcloth. "Got into his head that he could be some sort of supervillain, make a name for himself. Crossed the wrong people."

"And now you're in trouble," Clint says. He has no way to help Barney while he's tied up. If he could get into contact with Coulson, Clint could fix things, but Clint doesn't know how that's going to happen. He doesn't even know if Barney will leave Trick if he's given the chance.

"We were making a weapons drop, the shipment got stolen. Now the buyer is pissed and is going to kill us if we don't get him what he wants plus some extra." Barney finishes cleaning Clint's face and holds up a spoonful of soup. It's watery and without much flavor, but it's food, and Clint's grateful for it.

"You didn't have to kidnap me," Clint says. "Why didn't you contact me? Ask for help?" They've had their rough patches, but it's always been the two of them. First against dad then against school and then against the circus and the people outside the circus. It was the two of them until Barney left and then it was Clint and Trick and now it's Barney and Trick, but Barney has to know that that doesn't matter. When it comes down to it, it's Clint and Barney against the world, that's what it always comes down to.

"I wanted to." Barney feeds Clint some more soup. "I told Trick it didn't matter what you'd gotten yourself into, that you'd always help if we asked."

"He's never been one for listening to other people's input."

Barney chuckles. "No. Certainly not. Shit, this is weird. I'm spoon feeding my estranged brother who happens to be my prisoner, and we're reminiscing about our childhoods. We're screwed up."

"Knew that a long time ago." Clint tries to smile, but it hurts his face so he just opens his mouth for more soup.

* * *

The next time Clint wakes up, his bonds are looser. With some effort he could probably get out of them, but he doesn't know what he'd do next. Trick will definitely be armed, and Clint's not sure that Barney's actually on his side.

Still, being unrestrained is better than being restrained. Clint twists his wrists, trying to get some more room to work with and his fingers brush the scar on his arm.

Clint pauses immediately and looks down at the faint pink line. It didn't heal in a straight line, but it's proof that someone cares enough about Clint to pin him down and sew him back together, to patch up his arm so he isn't useless, so he can stay on as part of the team.

Clint runs his fingers over the scar and settles back into his chair. Coulson will come for him. Clint knows he will, and if Clint gets himself killed trying to escape then Coulson will be pissed. Best to sit here and wait.

* * *

Trick doesn't like Clint's sitting and waiting plan. He doesn't like Clint's silence either.

Trick grabs a handful of Clint's hair and jerks his head back. It hurts but more importantly, it exposes Clint's neck to the blade in Trick's hand.

Clint's actually not too worried about the knife that's tracing his jugular. Trick needs him alive so he won't kill him. Where the knife is right now is an empty threat.

Clint closes his eyes and thinks about Robin Hood, about the all the variations Coulson's read to Clint. He thinks about how they've moved on from Robin Hood to medieval history. One time, Coulson even tried reading Shakespeare, using different voices to tell the tale of King Henry and the battle of Agincourt.

Once more to the breach, Clint thinks and then the hilt of the knife presses Clint's lip into his teeth until it starts to bleed.

"I need guns, and you're going to get them for me."

Clint blinks and lets his mind drift to quiet nights in motel rooms, with Coulson propped up on one bed reading, Clint on the other, cleaning his weapons or going over mission notes.

Clint's pulled to the present when a sharp twist breaks his finger. He bites back his grunt of pain, and he's pissed, because he's going to be on medical leave now. Not a lot of use for a sniper that can't shoot.

"Here's the deal," Trick says, pressing the blade against Clint's index finger. "You're going to get me what I want or you're never going to shoot a bow again."

In the corner, Barney draws in a sharp breath. Clint's debating between silence and spitting blood on Trick's face when Trick goes down. The knife clatters to the floor and Clint looks down to see blood oozing out of a bullet wound in the back of Trick's head.

"No deal," Coulson says, stepping into the room, perfectly calm. "Stand down, Barney," Coulson says, not looking away from Clint. "There are two men with guns on you. Reach for yours and you die."

"Stand down," Clint repeats, but he can't tear his eyes off Coulson, because he's here. He came for Clint. "You can trust them."

"Take him in for questioning," Coulson says, moving towards Clint. "No rough treatment."

Clint breathes a little easier and then Coulson's kneeling at Clint's feet and using Trick's knife to cut the ropes. He frees Clint's feet and moves to the wrists, pausing when he sees the give in the ropes. He looks up at Clint, searching for answers.

"I waited for you," Clint says.

* * *

Clint's kept in medical overnight for observation. Coulson doesn't leave his side. He sits in the visitor's chair and fills out forms and goes through Clint's debrief.

At some point, Clint drifts to sleep, listening to the comforting scratch of pen against paper. When he wakes up, Coulson's sipping a cup of coffee, but his jacket is wrinkled, the only sign Clint can find that Coulson also fell asleep at some point.

"You all right?" Coulson asks.

Clint's not sure whether to laugh or give a smart remark, because he'd been kidnapped by his mentor and his brother, but then he sees the concern in Coulson's eyes and he follows his gaze to where Clint's rubbing at his scar.

Clint stills, but he can't stop the heated flush rising in his cheeks. "I'm fine." Clint drops his hands to the sheets.

Coulson lightly wraps his fingers around Clint's wrist and gives his arm a tug, exposing the faint pink scar. Coulson traces over it with his free hand, and the soft touches raises goosebumps on Clint's skin.

"You were touching it when I came in," Coulson says, his voice quiet like he's afraid of breaking the moment.

Clint doesn't know what to say, because he's stripped bare as it is, Coulson running his fingers over Clint's skin, his eyes searching Clint's for answers. Clint can't tell the truth, can't tell Coulson what it means to have that mark there, Coulson's promise that he'll come for Clint, that Clint means something.

"Well," Coulson clears his throat and pulls back, and Clint's afraid he's given away the truth without even speaking. "I'm glad you're feeling better. We'll find plenty to keep you busy while your finger heals up."

* * *

Clint works with Sitwell on his next few missions. He doesn't understand what he's done wrong, but Coulson doesn't check in on his training anymore, and his door isn't open on Thursdays for Clint to stop in and say hi.

Clint stops going out every other Wednesday, but Coulson doesn't comment on that either.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Clint makes a friend

* * *

Clint goes deep undercover in Ukraine, and he's cut off from everyone in SHIELD. He thinks he's more nervous about him leaving than anyone else. He's never been gone from SHIELD for this long, and he's never been without a contact.

It's not the lack of back-up that has him worried but the lack of supervision. He spends the first week working out the kinks in his accent and looking for a job and thinking about how easy it would be to slip off the radar. He has enough training that he could live virtually anywhere. He could make a home for himself in the mountains of Peru or the Saudi desert or even in the cold of Siberia.

By week two, Clint's stopped speculating on what it would be like to live on his own or how long it would take SHIELD to track him down. Instead, he focuses on lugging barrels of fish to the back tent and de-boning them with enough speed to keep his job.

After work, he showers with his coworkers under a cold, weak stream of water and then they stumble off in the direction of the local bar, still reeking of fish. Clint flirts and drinks watered down vodka, but he never takes anyone home and he never gets drunk. He does enough to fit in, to keep getting invitations to come out.

* * *

Two months in, Clint meets a young woman named Natalie Rushman. Her father's American, her mother's Russian, and she's come to the Ukraine to study abroad. She can drink the men under the table, can curse with the worst of them, and the first time a man makes an unwelcome advance she twists his arm behind his back and shoves his face into the table.

Clint falls a little bit in love, and he cautiously approaches her so he can hand her the money to buy herself a drink.

She raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrows at the money he offers.

Clint shrugs. "Figured if you shove a guy into a table for putting the moves on you, you're too smart to accept a drink from a guy. So, buy yourself a drink from me."

She smiles and orders a shot of vodka for each of them.

* * *

Clint grows to like the nights when he runs into Natalie at the bar. They have an understanding, and they drink together, sometimes talking, sometimes sitting in silence. Clint thinks it's sad that it takes a completely new identity and a new hemisphere for him to finally make a friend. He tries not to think too much about what will happen when this mission is over.

* * *

A week after Clint meets Natalie, he gets cornered outside the bar by two men who want him to smuggle drugs in through special fish barrels. This is why Clint's here, so he puts up a bit of a protest and then caves when they pull a gun on him.

* * *

Two weeks after Clint starts smuggling drugs, he's headed straight home, too tired for the bar, when he hears a scuffle. Years of SHIELD training make him check the alleyway to see if it's a drunk tussle or a real fight.

He sees a flash of red hair, and he knows without having to see her face that Natalie's involved. He enters the fight without a second thought, wrapping his arm around the neck of the man that was trying to sneak up behind her and taking him to the ground.

When the fight's over, Clint's jaw is throbbing, and he has a shallow cut on his arm. Natalie's worse off than he is; she has a cut across her cheek, her eye is already starting to blacken, and she has finger shaped bruises forming on her neck from where one of the brutes tried to strangle her.

She looks surprised to see Clint there. "You rescue all your drinking buddies from back alley fights?"

Clint nudges one of the thug's jackets to show a gun. "This was more than a back alley fight. Those you can handle on your own."

She shrugs and winces with the action. Clint notices that her shirt's torn, and she's bleeding. He's taking a step towards her before he realizes what he's doing, and she takes one back, holding her knife out between them.

Clint holds up his hands. "Sorry. Is the cut deep? I can stitch it."

Her eyes narrow. "So can I."

"Stitches would come out better if you let me."

He takes the wallets off the men and heads back towards his apartment. He hears the snap of gun holsters, and he knows that Natalie's taking the guns, but he doesn't say anything.

* * *

"How does a man who works in the fish market know how to stitch someone up?" Natalie asks once she's sitting in Clint's single chair, drinking vodka straight out of the bottle as Clint stitches her up.

Clint's kneeling on the floor next to her, carefully working the needle through her skin. "Why is a study abroad student stealing guns off of men she fights with in back alleys?"

Natalie presses her lips together, accepting that they're at an impasse and Clint goes back to stitching her up.

* * *

They end up getting drunk and when Clint wakes up, he and Natalie are sprawled across his bed. He rubs at his eyes, and the small movement is enough to jolt her awake, and he barely has time to catch her fist before he ends up with a black eye.

She twists and throws him to the ground, and Clint rolls out of the way and springs to his feet before she can land on him. Clint's heart is pounding, and adrenaline is coursing through his body, and he feels so alive he wants to laugh.

Natalie is lunging when she registers who she's fighting, and she comes to almost a complete stop. "Oh."

Clint grins and relaxes as she edges back. "Not usually how my mornings after go."

Natalie shrugs. "I'm not used to waking up in bed with people."

"No kidding." Clint heads to the cramped kitchen. "You want some breakfast?"

She hesitates in the bedroom.

"I stole a lot of money last night, I can afford to make you some breakfast."

"As long as it isn't fish."

Clint laughs and digs out the sausages.

* * *

Clint's halfway through his shift when he realizes that Natalie fought him with training. The guys in the alleyway too. She isn't some girl who's defending herself from drunk creeps, she's a woman with a background in martial arts.

Another thing that doesn't fit with her student story.

Clint's knife slips and he almost slices his finger open. He needs to stop thinking about enigmatic redheads and focus on work. He has a shipment of drugs coming in, and he needs to make sure the transfer goes smoothly.

* * *

A month later, Clint is on his way back from a drop when he hears the telltale fire of a silenced weapon. A moment later, he hears a body drop the ground. He slows his steps and his breathing and he inches around the side of the warehouse.

Rapid Russian is being fired between Natalie and one of the drug smugglers, and Clint's Russian isn't good enough to follow, he thinks it might be some dialect, and he spies another man inching his way towards Natalie, and Clint isn't sure whether to warn her or not when she pulls out a second gun and shoots the man dead without even looking.

It takes Clint a moment, but then he realizes who she is. He can't believe it took him this long. He should've realized when he heard her name. Should've known when he saw her hand-to-hand skills.

He's spent the past few months befriending the Black Widow.

Confident that she has the situation in hand, Clint slips back towards his rooms, wondering what to do with this information.

* * *

He settles for taping a piece of a poem to her door.

_Out of the ash  
I rise with my red hair  
And I eat men like air_

* * *

The next night, Clint is at the bar when Natalie slides into the booth next to him.

"What's a fish hand doing with knowledge of American poetry?" she murmurs in his ear.

Clint's playing a dangerous game, and it's a distraction to his mission, but he can't find it in him to care.

Clint nuzzles her hair, whispers, "I dunno, what's a student doing killing drug smugglers in the dead of night?"

She goes still underneath him, but she doesn't pull away. "What's a fish hand doing with advanced martial arts training?"

Clint grins into her hair. "Hoping to meet a mysterious woman to spar with."

Natalie laughs and pulls back, but there's a tension in her body that Clint doesn't miss. She runs her eyes down Clint's body, and Clint knows the moment she spots the knives he's concealed, the ones he doesn't go anywhere without.

She presses her lips together, thinking. Clint keeps his face blank, not giving anything away.

* * *

Clint doesn't seen Natalie—Natasha for a week and a half after their meeting in the bar. Clint worries about it for the first two days, but then he gets caught up in work and trying not to get killed by people who want in on the drug smuggling.

So Clint doesn't see Natalie again until Clint's been dragged in (finally) for a meeting with someone who actually knows the boss of the smuggling operation.

Clint's playing dutiful flunkie, hoping to somehow wrangle a promotion out of this meeting when Natalie glides in, wearing red garters and a black lace bodice, and hanging off the arm of who turns out to be the boss, Duchovsky.

Clint's warring between panicking that he's on the opposite side of the Black Widow and trying to figure out how to kill the boss and escape with his life.

He's leaning towards panicking when Natalie spots him, and her eyebrows lift barely an inch, but Clint can read disapproval, irritation, and dismissal in the brief motion. His hand inches towards his knife, because he's not going down without a fight.

"Who's this?" Natalie asks, pointing a manicured finger at Clint. He carefully keeps his eyes on the ground, because he doesn't want to get killed for looking at the boss's woman the wrong way, but he tracks Natalie's movements in his periphery.

"No one you need to worry about," Duchovsky says, and he reaches an arm out to snag Natalie and she lets him but crooks a finger at Clint.

Clint drags his feet, to show Duchovsky that he doesn't want to get between him and Natalie but that he's smart enough to follow an order given by the boss's woman. He also drags his feet, because he's pretty sure he's walking towards his death.

"He's not even one of us," Duchovsky says, dismissing Clint's Midwestern America looks.

"He's certainly not," Natalie says and she glances down at the gun in Duchovsky's belt and then over at Mendelev, Duchovsky's second in command.

Clint takes a deep breath, hopes that he's read Natalie's signal right, and pulls the gun from Duchovsky's belt. He undoes the safety and shoots Mendelev before he can draw his weapon. Clint dives to the side and fires off another shot as he springs to his feet. It catches the arm of a flunkie, but it keeps him too distracted to try and shoot at Clint.

Clint fires off two more shots, dropping two men that had come unarmed. The other two people Clint had come with, fellow workers in the fish industry, had run as soon as the guns came out. Clint turns to see that Natalie's brought Duchovsky to the ground, and she's used her garters to tie his wrists behind his back.

"Clever," Clint says.

She holds out an expectant hand. "I need more clothes."

Clint walks over to Mendelev and strips his jacket off and hands it over. Natalie takes it and slides it on. Clint refrains from telling her that she looks like a high class escort now. Well, she would except for the smear of blood on her cheek.

"I need to call this in," Clint says.

Natasha doesn't look surprised. "What organization?"

"SHIELD. They're interested in you so unless you're looking for a change of employer then you might want to head out."

She looks surprised at this, a quirk of her eyebrows giving her away. "Usually when people are interested in me, they're interested in my dead body."

"SHIELD's unusual." Clint pulls the cell phone from Duchovsky's pocket and types in a number Coulson had made him memorize before sending him out.

It gets through half a ring before Coulson picks up. "Hello Duchovsky."

"Should I be concerned that a Russian drug smuggler is in your contacts list?" Clint asks. He glances over at Natasha, unsure of what to make of the fact that she's still standing there. She smiles at Clint's question and settles back on her heels.

"Should I be concerned that you're calling me ahead of schedule?"

Clint grins. "Made a friend. She helped move things along." Clint's still watching Natasha, and she's still not making any move to run away. "You should send a clean-up team to the warehouse, and you should come personally to the rooms I'm renting. My friend's a bit skittish, and you make a good first impression."

"Cleaned up a job ahead of schedule and found a potential recruit?" Coulson's voice is warm with approval. "Careful, Barton, I might start getting the impression that you're a real agent now."

Clint knows that he's grinning stupidly into his phone, but it's been so long since he's heard Coulson's voice that he can't help it. He hadn't even realized he'd missed Coulson until now, when Clint's supposed to be hanging up but can't, because he doesn't want to lose the sound of Coulson's voice.

"We'll be there in a few hours," Coulson says. "Don't do anything stupid."

Clint laughs and heads towards the exit. "I'm never stupid, sir."

Behind him, Natasha snorts and Clint cheerfully flips her off.

"See you soon, Barton," Coulson says and Clint's pretty sure it's his imagination, but he thinks that Coulson lingers before he hangs up.

* * *

Clint and Natasha shower when they get back to Clint's rooms, and he heats some leftovers up for them while Natasha's in the shower, and they eat a celebratory meal.

"You're Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye," she says halfway through dinner.

"You're Natasha Romanov, codename Black Widow."

She nods, either confirming his answer or approving of his intelligence. "Most agencies have a shoot to kill order out on me."

Clint shrugs. "I was here to take down Duchovsky. Besides, I was given a chance I probably didn't deserve. Figured I could pass it on."

"Your cover was good. Almost too good. I almost shot you two weeks ago when I saw you unloading drugs."

"Not sure whether that means I should make my covers more or less obvious." Clint goes to his lone cabinet and pulls out a bottle of cheap vodka. "Want to drink to our success?"

"Your handler won't be mad if he shows up and we're drunk?"

Clint eyes the half bottle. "Your tolerance is too high to get drunk off this, and I know my limits."

Natasha shrugs, a fluid roll of her shoulders, and Clint hands her the bottle for first drink.

* * *

When Coulson arrives, he comes in through the bedroom window, gun drawn, and he doesn't lower it even when he sees Clint and Natasha sprawled out on the bed. Natasha's propped up against the headboard, running her hands casually through Clint's hair.

They tighten when she spots Coulson coming through the window. Clint looks up to see Coulson and his gun, and he smiles, loose and easy which is probably a direct result of the vodka.

"Miss Romanov," Coulson says. His eyes sweep over the scene and he holsters his gun.

"Agent Coulson." Natasha nudges Clint's head with her thigh, and Clint reluctantly sits up.

"You're interested in joining SHIELD?"

"I'm willing to consider the possibility."

Coulson nods, like this answer is more than he expected. "In that case, let's get the two of you to the jet. Agent Barton has been gone for a long time. I'm sure he's anxious to get home."

Home, Clint thinks, and this time, his smile has nothing to do with the vodka.


	6. Chapter 6

Warnings: Brief mention of weight-related bullying

* * *

When Clint gets back, the first thing he does is head to SHIELD's auxiliary prison to visit Barney. Barney wrinkles his nose when Clint comes in.

"You smell like fish."

Clint laughs and chases Barney around the small visiting room until he can pin him and give him a hug.

* * *

It takes two weeks for the faint smell of fish to stop following Clint around. In that time, he gets reacquainted with SHIELD, meets the new probies, gets a personal meeting with Fury so Fury can thank him for finding Natasha, and Clint goes out and buys a picture of Macchu Picchu and mounts it on his wall.

If this little room is going to be home then he might as well personalize it.

In those two weeks, Clint sees little of Coulson and even less of Natasha, but at the end of them, Coulson takes the two of them out to dinner and explains that they're now a team, and Coulson's their handler, and he hopes that the three of them will be able to work well together.

Clint's so happy it takes him an hour to fall asleep that night.

* * *

The next day, Clint and Natasha are inseparable. Clint eats breakfast in Coulson's office instead of the ceiling, and the three of them look over potential first missions. Natasha wants to go big. Coulson thinks they should start smaller, to make sure they work effectively as a team.

Natasha won't leave Coulson's office until Coulson promises to consider her opinion and then she and Clint are headed down to train. People stare as they walk by, whisper after they've passed, and Clint's not sure he likes walking with Natasha. He likes walking through the halls unnoticed. All these eyes on him make him nervous.

An hour in the sparring ring with Natasha shakes out all his nerves.

At lunch they get a table to themselves. Clint would be pleased with it, except he keeps feeling eyes on him and whenever he looks up, everyone drops their eyes to their plates. For a secret government agency, the people he works with are shit at subtlety.

Natasha, of course, thinks it's hilarious and five minutes into lunch she takes to twirling her butter knife between her fingers.

* * *

A year after Barney goes to SHIELD's prison, he's released into SHIELD custody. Clint heads down to Barney's room, which has video monitoring and sensors and all sorts of security that would make Clint's skin itch with the need to run, but Barney seems to understand or at least accept the temporary precautions.

"A cupcake?" Barney asks as Clint hands over the offering.

Clint shrugs. "It's a SHIELD tradition."

"It's been good for you," Barney says, plopping down on the bed. He peels off the wrapper and shoves half the cupcake into his mouth.

Clint smiles and drapes himself over the armchair. Out of habit, his eyes flick to the door, then the window.

"Relax," Barney says through a mouthful of cupcake. "This place is so wired, no one can get in or out without eight agents rushing the place. They think I'm dangerous." Barney grins, bright eyed and chipmunk cheeked, looking way too pleased about that fact.

"They tell you my deal?" Barney asks after a moment. Clint shakes his head. "I'm on probation for the next year, no major assignments, mostly more training and psych evals and all this bureaucratic shit, but if I'm a good boy then in a year I get to start earning my keep."

Barney crams the rest of the cupcake into his mouth and wipes the frosting and lingering crumbs off his face with the back of his hand. Clint's surprised at how well Barney's taking this. He's the active one of the two, the one that always has to be moving, occupying himself. Clint's the one who can sit still for hours as long as he feels safe.

"Patience is not one of your virtues," Clint says.

Barney grins and licks white frosting off his fingers. "I've got no virtues." The smile drops for a moment, showing a flash of seriousness. "I know what I want to do, and if I have to jump through some hoops to get there then I will."

"SHIELD will be good for you too." Clint's phone beeps and he pulls it out to find a coded message from Natasha. All she's doing is asking him if he's still on for dinner tonight. She claims the codes are to keep him in practice. He thinks she's too paranoid for her own good.

"That your new girlfriend?" Barney grins and points to the phone.

Clint laughs. "I'd like to see you call her that to her face. No, actually, please don't. I like you alive."

Barney whistles, impressed. "You would go for a girl that could kick your ass."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"You brought her home to meet the 'rents," Barney says. "Definitely girlfriend."

* * *

Natasha and Clint eat dinner at a small diner where everyone calls Clint 'son', and they make a fresh apple pie whenever he comes through the door.

Clint's halfway through his salad, picking out all the cranberries and dropping them on Natasha's plate when he says, "Barney thinks we're dating."

Natasha laughs, and she's open for a moment, genuinely happy, and then she's shaking her head and pressing her lips together like she can only laugh for a couple seconds at a time and she's used her time up. "That's ridiculous."

"I know. I told him that."

Natasha's still smiling as she pokes at her eggplant parm.

Clint takes a few more bites of his salad. "You're not my girlfriend."

Clint meets Natasha's eyes for a brief second. Her eyebrows are raised as if to say 'we both know that, why are you still talking'. Clint doesn't know why it's important for him to make this point. It's not like there's anything wrong with Natasha. She's his partner and he trusts her, and they might even be friends, but they're not dating.

"Do you want me to be?" Natasha asks after a moment.

Clint shakes his head, spears a mandarin orange and pops it into his mouth.

"Do you want to have sex?" Natasha grins as Clint almost chokes on his orange, and she doesn't wait for him to stop coughing before she's talking again. "I've read your psych profile. They think your lack of sexual partners implies that you have trust issues."

Clint's heard it all before, and he really isn't that surprised that Natasha's hacked into all his files. If he was good with computers, he'd return the favor. They're a team now, and they should know everything about each other, because anything could be a potential weakness.

"What do you think?" Clint asks.

Natasha regards him for a moment, her eyes looking past him, into him, and Clint wants to fidget, but he's a better agent than that. "I think you're waiting for someone special."

Clint laughs, but Natasha isn't smiling. She's serious, and Clint doesn't know what to do with that so he pours a little more dressing on his salad. "If they're special then they wouldn't be with me."

"Correction," Natasha says. "You're not waiting, you've found her," Natasha pauses, checks Clint's face, "him. You've found him, but you're not doing anything about it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Clint says, and he's actually telling the truth which is what makes Natasha's smile even more frightening. Apparently Clint's so secretly lusting after someone that even he doesn't know who it is. Except that it's a man.

* * *

"Did you know that your early reports all call you Coulson's sniper?" Natasha asks, conversationally, like they haven't been working out for the past hour.

Clint thinks that it's unfair that she expects him to carry on a conversation while benching, but Natasha's never believed in fairness. She takes her advantages where she can and never feels guilty for it.

Clint didn't know that, but he's not surprised. Coulson had been the one who found him and brought him in, and Clint was an unknown. No point in calling him by his own name, no point in getting familiar until they knew whether or not he was going to pan out.

Clint grunts and breathes out as he pushes the bar up, his arms straining with the effort. He slowly lowers the bar back to his chest, his muscles trembling with the effort to take the bar down slowly instead of letting it crash down.

"What do they call me now?" Clint used his air to talk so he has to take another breath, and hold the bar longer, before pushing back up. There's no way he's going to get a full set in if Natasha insists on holding a conversation.

"Agent Barton. Why, you like the other one better?"

Clint blinks the sweat out of his eyes and brings the bar down for his next rep. He can admit to himself that he doesn't hate Coulson's sniper. Well, he wouldn't if it was permanent, but he's Coulson's sniper only when Coulson wants him to be. He's been passed around SHIELD, different handlers, different teams, but maybe that's what it means to belong to someone; they control when they do and don't want you.

Clint shoves the bar up, his entire body shaking as he pours the last of his strength into the movement. He racks the bar and grabs the towel off the floor so he can wipe the sweat off his face.

"You had another two reps," Natasha says.

"I can't do it."

Clint takes a sip of water and goes to adjust the weight for Natasha's set.

* * *

Natasha's words stick with Clint the next time he goes to Coulson's office. Thursdays are the day they do something together, part of forming the agent-handler relationship, but it's always on Coulson's terms.

Clint wanders by Coulson's office several times during the day, waiting to see the door cracked, because that means he has enough time to sit down with Clint and have a coffee or talk about an upcoming mission or give Clint a recap of the latest Knicks game.

It takes three trips today for the door to be cracked. _Coulson's sniper_, Clint can't help but think as he nudges the door open.

Coulson doesn't look up from his computer, but he takes a moment to wave Clint in.

"I can get coffee," Clint says, because it looks like Coulson's in the middle of something, and Clint's selfish enough to want Coulson's full attention.

"I've been cut off."

Clint notices the way Coulson's hands are shaking over the keyboard, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his fingers pause too long between words. Tired, overworked, on the edge of collapse. Clint catalogues each of these things, and he shuts and locks the door before sitting down in the chair across from Coulson desk.

"The couch is clean," Coulson says.

"Finish your work."

Clint picks up a paperclip and bends it out of shape so he can mold it into an arrow, a circle, a heart, a series of shapes and images until the metal's been bent so much it snaps. He tosses the pieces in the trashcan as Coulson pushes back from his computer.

He reaches for his coffee mug and brings it to his lips before he realizes that it's empty. "Oh," he says, voice small and lost, and Clint doesn't like seeing Coulson like this. Coulson is put together and efficient and in control.

"Sleep," Clint says, pointing to the couch. "I'll keep watch."

"We're in SHIELD," Coulson says even as he gets up and shuffles over to the couch. "You don't need to keep watch."

Clint just positions himself more comfortably in the chair. Coulson drags the blanket off the back of the couch and curls up.

"Did you know that people called me your sniper?" It's a stupid question, because of course Coulson knows, Coulson knows everything, and if he wasn't on the verge of falling asleep, he probably would've called Clint out on the question he's really asking.

Instead, Coulson answers. "You're SHIELD's," Coulson says, voice thick with sleep, but tinged with something that sounds like resentment.

Clint's too busy trying to puzzle out the answer to a question he didn't ask to press further.

* * *

Barney's allowed out of SHIELD with a proper escort, but no one trusts Barney and Natasha out on the streets together so the first time Clint has dinner with the two of them, it's on base.

"She wants to know everything about me," Clint says, an explanation and apology in one as Natasha starts inspecting Barney's room.

"So she came here?" Barney looks around his kitchen/sitting room. There are a few circus posters hanging up, but nothing more personal than that. They're not even the circus Clint and Barney had been a part of. Clint thinks they only reason he put them up was so he wasn't staring at white walls all the time.

Clint shrugs, because he might be Natasha's partner, but he knows he doesn't understand her. Not completely. He understands her well enough to know that it will always have to be that way. She needs to hide some part of herself away, keep it protected, because it's what she goes back to when she has to remake herself.

"How's studying for your GED?" Natasha asks, emerging from the bedroom.

Barney doesn't ask how she knew just shrugs. "Fine. Even more glad I didn't waste my time in high school."

Clint knows that Natasha's filing away every piece of information, every gesture, every inflection of Barney's voice to analyze later. She's better than the security cameras in the room, and Clint has no idea how learning Barney inside and out will help her understand Clint, but they're not threatening each other so he's happy.

"I don't have much by the way of food," Barney says. "Usually I eat in the mess."

"Takeout's on its way," Natasha says. She watches Barney's eyes flick to Clint's and she grins, triumphant. "Clint usually cooks for you?"

"He doesn't for you?"

Clint hasn't cooked for Natasha since the Ukraine where technically he was cooking for Natalie. He hasn't offered, she hasn't pushed it, he didn't think there was a problem.

Natasha runs her fingers over one of the posters, memorizing the positions of each performer and their acts. "Only Coulson."

Barney's eyes flick over to Clint's again, and Clint suddenly understands. He's too well-trained to give out obvious tells around Natasha, but Barney isn't. She's using him to read Clint, and she knows Clint won't walk out, because he values his time with his brother too much.

"You're a calculating bitch," he says, but there's no heat in his words, just acceptance.

Natasha grins. "Took you long enough."

"You cook for your handler and not your girlfriend?" Barney asks. "You have your priorities a bit skewed."

Clint knows he should keep quiet, because anything he says is another puzzle piece for Natasha to hoard and compare against her other pieces, but Barney's room is bugged, and he knows there are agents listening to this conversation, and he doesn't want them getting the wrong impression of Agent Coulson.

"She's not my girlfriend." Clint drops down to the armchair, resigned to playing into Natasha's hand. "And I don't cook _for_ Agent Coulson. I cook for myself on missions and sometimes he's there."

Clint can see the wheels turning in Natasha's head, and he closes his eyes so he doesn't drive himself mad trying to figure out what she's gleaned from him in that sentence.

After a moment, Natasha goes to the door. "I'm going to get our food. Set the table while I'm gone."

"Shit," Barney breathes once she's gone.

Clint nods, because he understands, and goes to set the table.

"Sorry that she's using me. I haven't figured out how, but she clearly is."

Clint shrugs and grabs the silverware while Barney gets glasses. "Sitting in silence would be boring."

"So you let her win? That's not like you."

"We met when we were both undercover. I worked in the fish market, she was a college student. We worked well together so they made us partners, but all we have is our instincts and a thorough knowledge of each other's cover stories. She trusted Bohdan, now she has to learn if she can trust Clint."

"That was a long way to say yes," Barney says. He pours three glasses of water. "You're defending her to me. Sure she's not your girlfriend?"

Barney's voice is teasing, but there's a change in his eyes, something that says he understands, and Clint relaxes.

Natasha comes back a moment or two into their silence, a Chipolte bag in each hand. "My ears are burning." She sets the bags down on the table and pulls out a smaller bag of chips and containers of beans and guacamole and salsa.

Clint takes out the two burritos and the burrito bowl, putting the bowl in front of his plate.

"How did she know?" Barney asks, sitting down in front of his burrito.

Natasha grins and Clint rolls his eyes. "She didn't. She guessed and you confirmed."

"No fair explaining the rules." Natasha sinks gracefully into her chair and tears the aluminum foil off her burrito.

Barney takes a large bite out of burrito before he notices Clint poking at his rice, lettuce, cheese, and chicken with a fork. "Tortilla too expensive?"

"Have some manners," Clint says, "There's a lady at the table."

"He's deflecting," Natasha says, and she smiles, unapologetic as Clint's glare. "I'm just explaining the rules."

Barney fixes Clint with a hard stare.

Clint adds some salsa and some guacamole to his dinner. "I'm on a specific training regimen."

"That's your fancy way of saying diet." Barney blows out a slow breath and his fingers tighten around his fork.

"Who was it?" Natasha asks.

Clint takes a bite of his dinner even though he knows not answering won't distract Natasha. Besides, it's not like she needs him to answer. That's what Barney's for.

"Who was what?" Barney looks between them, frowning, trying to figure out what he's given away now.

"You got mad when Clint said he's monitoring what he eats, but you didn't get mad at Clint, you got mad at someone else. Someone in your shared past made Clint self-conscious about food." She watches Barney's gaze skitter away from hers. "Specifically, his weight, not food or you wouldn't have joked about the price of the tortilla."

Natasha puts her fork down and turns so she can capture Barney's full attention. "I'm explaining the rules to you, because you're a liability to Clint. I need to know everything which is why I'm shamelessly taking advantage of how open you are. There are people who you don't want knowing everything about your brother. You need to learn how you're telegraphing so that you can stop."

Natasha reaches past Barney for the container of cheese and just like that, Barney's first introduction to spy work is over.

* * *

"Trevor Longo," Clint says when he and Natasha are headed back to their floor after dinner. They had done an acrobat show together for a bit. He dropped Clint one time, and he told everyone it was because Clint was a fat ass. Clint had believed him for a solid six months.

Towards the end of the sixth months, Clint pushed himself too hard trying to hang clean more than he should've and without a spotter, and he fell backwards instead of forward and ended up getting pinned under the barbell.

The strongman found him before the weight could crush Clint's chest, and then Barney showed Clint the footage from the stunt, and it was clear that Trevor had just missed, and the grip he had on Clint wasn't enough to keep Clint from falling.

Clint's grateful that Natasha let the topic drop while they were in Barney's room, because even though he's apparently not allowed to keep secrets from her, he does want to keep some from SHIELD.

"He's probably changed his name, but I can track him down."

"I'm fine," Clint says and it's the truth. He'd believed a lot of things people told him when he was younger. He doesn't believe as many now, and he's more careful about taking what people tell him as truth.

On bad days, Trevor's there, lurking in the back of his mind to spring up and sneer 'fat ass' or 'piece of shit' or whatever uncreative name he had on the tip of his tongue, but on the good days, Clint forgets that he ever existed.

They reach Clint's room first, and Natasha hovers in the doorway instead of leaving right away. After a moment, Clint looks at her, giving her permission to ask.

"The water," she says. "You drank with me in Ukraine and were fine."

"Dad," Clint explains, and even though it unnerves him how easily Natasha can read him, it's also nice not to have to talk through everything. He can give her words, looks, and she can understand what's between his clues. He doesn't have to drudge up old memories, doesn't have to live through things he's put to rest.

"Barney took after your father. You were too young to follow his example."

"Jackson," Clint says, supplying her with the missing piece. "Taught me how to cheat at poker without getting caught and how to drink without getting mean." Most of the time. There are times Clint knows better than to drink, because he knows he's going to become someone he doesn't like.

Natasha nods and, apparently satisfied with what she's learned tonight, heads out without a goodnight or a goodbye.

* * *

Clint and Natasha head to Texas for their first mission to deal with a domestic terrorism threat. There's a school that's been taken, and all the kids are trapped inside and terrified, and Clint's pissed.

Even Natasha has tight lines around her eyes and her lips, unable to keep her face perfectly blank. When they go in, they break arms and noses and don't pull their punches. Clint doesn't think anyone's going to write them up.

The FBI is pissed, because they were trying to negotiate the safe release of the hostages, but Clint and Natasha work faster, and they're successful so no one can really complain.

The only hang-up is when Clint slips into the last room to get the kids out, and there's an armed man stationed inside with them.

The man grabs the nearest body to him, a little boy with crooked glasses and who's missing his first tooth. Clint freezes, panicked that he's going to get this kid killed and then he's slowly raising his hands over his head.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Clint says which is a lie. He's going to beat the shit out of this guy if he can get his hands on him. "I'm part of the rescue crew. They told me to bring the kids out."

The man waves his gun at Clint's belt, and Clint takes a deep breath and prays that the amateur doesn't accidently shoot someone while waving his gun about. "Rescue crews carry guns?"

Clint slowly takes the gun out of its holster and drops it out of the window. "No gun now. Can I have the kids?"

"Shut the window," the man orders. "Close the blinds."

So, no, Clint thinks. He doesn't get to help the kids escape. The teacher, a young woman with calm eyes but shaking hands helps Clint with the blinds. He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, because he's going to get everyone in this room out alive. He's not sure how yet, but he has time to figure that out.

Clint calculates that he has five minutes before Coulson or Natasha spot his gun on the ground. They'll know that he's in one of two rooms and that he's found himself a part of the hostage situation.

Of course, if the FBI spot the gun first or are with Coulson and Natasha when they find the gun then things get interesting and someone will probably end up dead.

Clint takes slow steps towards the man with the gun. He backs up, taking the boy into the corner, away from all the other kids.

"We could trade," Clint suggests. The man is in the corner, nowhere to go. Clint slows his steps, but keeps moving forward. "Me for the boy. I'm more valuable than he is as a bargaining tool."

The man's arm is wrapped around the boy's shoulders, pinning him against the man, but the gun is pointed at Clint. As long as the arm stays around the shoulders and not the neck and as long as the gun stays on Clint, Clint can make this work.

"You're a rescue worker," the man says like he suspects Clint's lying.

Clint grins, sharp white teeth. "Top of my class, though."

He moves, too fast for the man to register. He grabs the wrist holding to gun and shoves it up and back. The man fires off a shot, shocked by the attack, but it goes into the ceiling. The kids start screaming, but a moment later the man joins them, as his arm is forced further back than it's made to go.

The man lets go of the boy to attack Clint and the boy drops to the ground and rolls out of the way, and Clint slams his knee into the guy's groin. The man grunts and gets a hand around Clint's neck.

Clint grabs whatever fingers he can reach and jerks. They break and the man howls and sinks to the ground. Clint grabs the gun and slides it across the floor, out of reach. He shoves an arm into the guy's neck, pinning him to the floor and does a quick pat down with his free hand, looking for other weapons.

He doesn't find any, but he ties the guy up anyways.

A moment later, Natasha drops down from the ceiling, and the kids scream in surprise. The little boy who'd been held hostage dives at her and bites her ankle.

It takes Clint a moment longer than it should to stop laughing and say, "Easy, she's a friend."

Natasha scans the room, assessing that everyone's okay. It's a sign of her trust in him that the attacker is the last person she looks at.

"He's not making enough noise," she says and slings him over her shoulder before going out the classroom door. Clint doesn't want to think about what the man's immediate future looks like.

"Rescue worker?" the teacher asks, managing to sound both amused and disbelieving. Clint thinks after some therapy she'll recover fine from this.

"Rescued you, didn't I?" Clint grins and goes to grab the gun before someone accidently shoots themselves. He touches his earpiece to activate it. "Room 4C secured. Widow has the intruder." Clint does a quick sweep of the kids. "No apparent injuries."

"Good work, Hawkeye," Coulson says. "Stay put, we have someone on their way up to escort the kids down."

Clint turns back to the teacher. "There are people coming up to bring you down."

She nods and draws the frightened six and seven year olds to her. She says something, too soft for Clint to catch but then they're smiling, and Clint knows that everything's going to be okay. The teacher breaks out what appears to be a secret stash of Play-Doh, and Clint can't help but be amazed at how they settle down and play as if they weren't just trapped in their classroom with an armed man.

Kids are resilient, he thinks.

Two FBI agents come to collect the kids, and the teacher herds the kids into line, promising that they can keep their Play-Doh if they just listen to the nice men in suits. The boy with crooked glasses runs out of line to hand Clint a lopsided and somewhat squished yellow star.

"I don't know how to spell sheriff," he says and he gives Clint's waist a brief squeeze before running back to line.

Clint grins and gives the FBI guys a salute before going to find Coulson.

* * *

Natasha laughs and ruffles Clint's hair when she sees the star.

Coulson smiles and when they stop for congratulatory snacks (donuts for Coulson, Twizzlers for Natasha, and sunflower seeds for Clint) Coulson buys him a cowboy hat.

Clint wears it the whole flight back to New York.

* * *

After they're back at SHIELD and showered and in clean clothes, the three of them meet in an empty conference room to debrief and fill out post-mission paperwork.

Director Fury stops by with Chinese. "Congratulations, you're now a team. Though the FBI tells me you weren't cooperative with their plans."

"We don't play well with others," Natasha says and swipes the lo mein.

Clint's too busy smiling at the 'we' to care.

Fury looks between the two of them, then over at Coulson. "Huh. Seems to me, you play nice when you need to." Fury catches Natasha's eye and holds it, letting her know that he sees through her bullshit. "That's all I require of you."

Natasha holds out a set of chopsticks.

Fury takes them and joins them at the table. "Heard a rumor from a contact down in Houston that Chuck Norris rescued Calhoun Elementary from the bad guys." Fury looks over at Clint, a faint trace of a smile on his face.

"I'll start working on my beard, sir."

Coulson laughs and throws a fortune cookie at Clint's head.


	7. Chapter 7

As a general rule, probies don't get nicknames. They're probie or 'hey you' or on a rare occasion, referred to by their last name. Everyone knew that Clint was going to be Hawkeye from the first time they saw him shoot, but the name didn't catch on until he became a junior agent.

Two months into being a probie, a probie under house arrest, Barney names himself Trickshot, and he refuses to answer to anything else.

Clint voluntarily goes to his therapist for the first time.

He sits down across from Lacey and says, "My brother just named himself after my mentor and the man who left me and who later kidnapped me and threatened to kill me if I didn't betray SHIELD."

Lacey doesn't bat an eye. She puts her pencil down, leans forward and says, "I'm guessing you have a lot of feelings about that."

* * *

Clint goes to talk to Lacey every day for a week, and he ignores Barney until Barney finds him in the mess at lunch. Clint has plenty of space to use to escape, but Lacey thinks that he should talk to Barney, and Clint's tired of wasting an hour of every day talking to Lacey so he figures he'll give it a go.

"I'm not becoming him," Barney says. He takes the fact that Clint hasn't fled as an invitation and sits down at Clint's table. There's a lull in the mess chatter, and Clint knows people are staring at them. He does his best to ignore it.

Barney sighs when Clint's silence stretches to the point where it's obvious Clint isn't going to say anything. "Trick wanted a legacy. He wanted to be a villain. He wanted people to hear his name and shit their pants. I'm going to ruin that legacy."

Clint thinks about the first time Barney snuck out and got drunk. Barney had screamed and shouted and thrown things and tore his shirt off. He growled at Clint when Clint tried to take away his bottle, and he'd sounded so much like dad that Clint had run and hid even though dad had been dead for two years.

Barney had walked around haunted for a day and then he'd set his jaw and found some tequila and told Clint that he wasn't going to let the ghost of their old man ruin life for him. Barney usually ends up a mean drunk which is why he's stopped drinking.

Clint's afraid of where this new attempt to break out of the shadow of another man is going to take Barney. Trick had left Clint and then tried to use him. Clint's not sure he'll be able to survive Barney leaving him again.

"Besides," Barney says after another uncomfortable silence. "I'm not pretty enough to pull off being Legolas."

* * *

Clint goes to see Lacey the next day and tells her that he talked to Barney, but he's not sure he's okay with it. She tells him he doesn't have to be, that some things take time, and that some things never feel right.

Clint doesn't like that answer, but it's the only one he has.

* * *

"You've been going to therapy," Coulson notes during check-in.

Clint drapes his legs over the side of Coulson's couch, comfortable enough here that he doesn't need his feet on the ground, doesn't need to be able to move or run in the blink of an eye. "Stopped having sex with strangers, though."

"You found someone then?" Coulson glances up from his paperwork.

"No. Figured I've been working here long enough to break some rules."

Coulson frowns, paperwork forgotten. "That's not how it works."

Clint shrugs.

"What about," Coulson hesitates and that gets Clint's attention, because Coulson never hesitates, he never acts unsure. Coulson's looking down at his paperwork, but his eyes are too unfocused to actually be reading anything. "I don't normally recommend team fraternization, but you and Natasha are close."

"She already knows enough about me," Clint says and he wonders why everyone thinks that he and Natasha are such a sure thing. Clint needs someone steady in his life. Natasha is incredible, but she changes faster than Clint can keep track of, and he knows that if anything ever goes wrong, she can disappear without a word, without a goodbye, and that he'd never see her again unless she wanted him to.

They're tangled up enough in each other's lives as partners, as the person they've each selected to know as much of them as they can stand to share. They can't get any closer or they'll never be able to part and that will make them a liability to each other.

"This is exactly what psych is concerned about," Coulson says, and his voice is steadier, apparently over whatever had ruffled him. "You don't let people close."

"You, sir," Clint says, "are a hypocrite."

There's a long silence, and Clint's afraid that he's pushed too far, that maybe he's crossed the professional line. He's never quite been able to find out where that line is between them, but it has to be there somewhere.

"Is that what this is about?" Coulson pushes back from his desk, giving Clint his full attention. "You think I'm keeping secrets from you?"

Clint's too tense to properly sprawl, and he knows it has to be showing, but he knows that if he sits up then he'll definitely give away that he's getting close to panic mode.

"Do you want to see my apartment?"

Clint slides into a sitting position, because he can't lie down and have this conversation. He's not even sure he can have this conversation at all. Does he want to see Agent Coulson's apartment? He's never thought of it. Never really considered that Agent Coulson has an apartment. And then he realizes why. Agent Coulson doesn't have an apartment. Agent Coulson has an office. Phil has an apartment.

Clint eases back into the couch. "No."

"No?" Coulson looks puzzled.

Clint gestures around him. "This is Agent Coulson's space. Everything I need to know is here." He has a couch in his office, because sometimes he sleeps here, it's the same reason he always keeps two backup suits in the wardrobe in the corner. Even though he has two suits, he keeps three shirts and four ties. The extra shirt is for Sitwell who spills coffee on himself more than any other human alive, and the extra ties, because they can dress up or dress down an outfit with ease.

There's no clock within sight if Coulson faces his desk, because time doesn't matter in here. Getting the job done is what matters, and if that means staying past "work hours" then he'll do it. Besides, his computer beeps to alert him when he has meetings or places to be which means checking a clock is unnecessary.

There's a coffee machine in the corner so he can easily get his fix, but it's one of the Keurig machines, and Coulson only brings in three of the individual cup things a day so he doesn't overdose on caffeine.

"I'm leaving the office early today," Coulson says, interrupting Clint's thoughts. "You're coming to my apartment for dinner." He senses Clint's hesitation and says, "I'll make it an order if I have to."

* * *

Coulson lives only two blocks away so they walk over. "My therapist says I need to do a better job separating work from home," Coulson says with a little smile as they duck into a small Italian restaurant.

Clint's not sure why he's surprised that Coulson also has mandatory counseling. He supposes it only makes sense that everyone involved with SHIELD has to go through psych evals and has someone to talk to them, because they certainly can't talk to anyone outside of SHIELD.

"Philip!" the woman behind the counter shouts. She's an older woman with graying curls and wrinkles folded into light brown skin, and she ignores the customer at the counter and comes to wrap Coulson up in a large hug.

She smells like garlic and rosemary, and she turns from Coulson to Clint, and her eyes light up into a brilliant smile. "Ah," she says, and she looks over at Coulson like she's just discovered a great secret. "This is why you ordered extra garlic bread?"

Clint looks over at Coulson, part shocked, part awed, and this is exactly why he didn't want to get involved in Phil's life. Because Phil has a standing order at a mom and pop Italian place, and he gets hugs from the owner and probably calls her 'mom' or 'grandma' or something when Clint's not here, and these are things that Clint doesn't need to know.

He doesn't need to see how Coulson relaxes as soon as he's surrounded by the heat from the shop and the quiet chatter of the patrons. He doesn't need to know that Coulson can speak Italian fluently. He definitely doesn't need to know that Coulson remembers that Clint likes garlic bread, that it's the one carb he overindulges on.

So Clint frowns when he's handed a paper bag full of food and says, "This is going to ruin my diet."

The owner, who insists that Clint call her Momma Sabatini gives Clint a critical look. "Why are you on a diet?" When Clint says nothing, she rounds on Coulson. "Why are you letting him diet?" She pinches Clint's arm, getting a bit of skin between her nails, and it hurts, but Clint's a trained government agent so he doesn't wince. "He needs more meat on these bones. Gio!" she calls back to the kitchen. "I need another order of meatballs!"

Clint opens his mouth to protest, but Momma Sabatini must have a sixth sense because she spins around and wags a warning finger in his face. "I do what I want in my shop," she says before disappearing back to the kitchen.

Coulson grins and leans against the counter. "She grows on you."

* * *

They eat first so the food doesn't get cold and then Coulson gives Clint the tour, even though Clint insists he doesn't need one. They'd walked through the living room to get to the kitchen, but they go back to it to start.

Coulson turns on his TV, and accesses his DVR and shows Clint everything he has stored.

"Real Housewives?" Clint asks before he can help it.

"I like yelling at them," Coulson answers. He keeps scrolling and his DVR is a collection of terrible reality shows. "I used to watch cop shows." Coulson sets the remote down and goes back to the kitchen. "I would point out everything they did wrong, but my therapist said that was considered bringing work home."

"So you moved on to Jersey Shore?"

Coulson shrugs. "Not much else on. What do you watch?"

"National Geographic." Clint traces his fingers over the stove, unsurprised to find dust on it. Coulson doesn't appear to be one for cooking. "Sometimes the History Channel."

"Used to be into that one too," Coulson says. "Then everything was blamed on aliens, and I thought it was stupid. And then I learned that aliens were real, and I became a conspiracy theorist. Fury ordered me to stop."

Clint's not sure what to do with all the information he's getting so he moves on to the next room. Only, the next room is Coulson's bedroom, and Clint already feels like he's intruding so he goes to leave, but Coulson's behind him, an encouraging hand on the small of his back.

"I invited you here," Coulson says. "It's all right."

It's not all right, Clint thinks, but he steps into the room. He doesn't know why Coulson's doing this. He doesn't understand the point. Is this a test? A trust exercise? Why isn't Natasha here if this is a team building activity?

Clint lets his eyes roam over the room, eager for every bit of information he can get, even though he knows he shouldn't be. Agent Coulson and Phil are two separate people, and he's going to blur them if he keeps this up, but Clint's so tired of giving and losing and getting nothing in return, and this is something and it's being offered so he takes it.

On the bedside table, there's a small Captain America figurine. He pauses when he spots it.

"I'm a Cap fanboy," Coulson admits. "My real memorabilia is hidden away, but I keep some of the commercial stuff lying around."

Clint picks up the action figure and turns it over in his hand. "Barney and I would play Captain America when we were little. Barney was always the Captain." Clint was always the Red Skull. He puts the toy back down.

He's done with the tour and they've eaten dinner, and Clint still can't figure out the endgame, but he doesn't know what they're supposed to do now.

There's a moment of silence that's headed towards awkward when Coulson says, "Want to watch an episode Wife Swap before you go?"

Clint frowns but follows Coulson into the living room. "You want to watch porn?"

"What?" Coulson looks shocked for a moment, and a blush starts to creep up his cheeks but then he laughs and shakes his head. "Not porn. Better than porn."

They settle down on opposite sides of the couch and Coulson turns on the TV.

* * *

"Something's different," Natasha says the next morning over breakfast in Coulson's office.

Clint sets his banana down and rests his arms at his sides, opening up his body for Natasha to analyze. He's starting to understand her now. How she's been lied to and manipulated and tricked, how she's been kept out of important secrets, why she needs to know everything, why she needs figure it out for herself.

He thinks they make a good pair. She needs know, but needs to find it out on her own, and he needs to tell, but he doesn't ever want to open his mouth.

She looks Clint up and down and does the same to Coulson and then she turns back to Clint, and she's frowning, and Clint thinks that this is the longest he's ever stumped her for.

"You didn't sleep together," she says. "And you didn't fight." She purses her lips and gives each of them another look. "You had some kind of break through, but I don't know what it was."

Clint's smile slips off his face, and it's his turn to think. They had a break through? "We watched TV." And ate garlic bread and talked about Captain America, but none of that was a break through.

"Ah," Natasha says, and Clint wants to know what she's understood, because it's not fair that she knows more about his life than he does. He looks over at Coulson for a clue, but Coulson is picking the walnuts off his muffin and is no help.

"I'm going to go to the gym." Clint tosses his banana at the trashcan, but Natasha intercepts it before it can reach. She tosses it back.

"You should finish your breakfast."

Clint's not sure where the anger comes from, but he throws the banana back at her, and she catches it easily, but her stance changes, wary of him.

"Don't tell me what to do."

He goes to the shooting range instead of the gym and shoots at the same target until it's just a few tatters of paper clinging to the clips.

* * *

Natasha gives him an hour and then comes and finds him.

"What's wrong?" she asks, like she has any right to come into his space and demand answers after he's made it clear he doesn't want to be around her.

Clint puts the gun down, not because he doesn't trust himself, but because he doesn't want any accidents. It means he has nothing to occupy himself with. No target to look at, no trigger to pull. It's just him and Natasha and whatever the hell happened in Coulson's office.

Only, Clint has no idea what happened in Coulson's office. All he knows is that he's angry, he's practically jumping out of his skin, and he doesn't know the reason.

"Why don't you tell me?"

Natasha arches an eyebrow, a request for more information.

"You know more about me than I do."

And Clint supposes that's it. That's what's gotten him all wound up. Natasha can look at him and read him, and it's not just the things he wants her to, but the things he doesn't, and the things he doesn't even know are things. She knows him better than he knows himself, and he doesn't like that. It makes him feel out of control.

"You see better from a distance," Natasha says after a moment. "Right now it's too close to you for you to see."

"Then tell me."

She shakes her head. "You'll see it when you're ready."

Clint knows better than to try and get information out of her that she doesn't want to give so he picks up his gun, chooses a new target and starts firing.

Natasha, satisfied with the conversation, leaves after she makes sure the first five shots are kill shots.

* * *

Once Clint's done worrying about Natasha, he starts worrying about Coulson. No one at SHIELD has ever invited him to their apartment. The only rooms he's been to are Barney's and Natasha's, but Natasha's are even more bare than Clint's, and Barney can't go to Clint's room so they go to Barney's.

Clint doesn't know the protocol involved. Does he invite Coulson to his apartment for dinner now? When he was little, Clint would go to other people's houses, but they would never come to his, because they never knew what kind of a mood dad was going to be in, but he's pretty sure there was an expected reciprocity to invitations.

Clint spends three days thinking it over, more attention than it deserves, and finally he slips a note under Coulson's door Thursday morning during Clint's first 'is Coulson's office open' pass of the day.

* * *

At 7:30pm there's a knock at Clint's door. He opens it, and lets Coulson inside. Coulson steps in and closes the door, and he starts to shrug out of his jacket and then he puts it back on and starts to do up the buttons and then he pauses, and Clint's glad that he's not the only one who's completely at a loss for what's going on.

"I thought I should have you over," Clint says and he goes over to stir the rice, because he's best if he has something to do with his hands. "If you need to go home I understand."

"My DVR will wait up for me," Coulson says. "She's understanding that way."

Clint smiles and relaxes a little. "Junior agents don't get DVR, but you can flip channels if you want."

"How pedestrian," Coulson says but he picks the remote up off the table.

After a moment with no sound, Clint turns to make sure everything's okay. Coulson's flipping through the National Geographic that was on the coffee table.

"You have a monthly subscription," Coulson says. "You really into the outdoors?"

Clint shrugs. "I travel a lot, but I don't really get to see the beauty."

"Mm," Coulson pauses and Clint knows from the edge of the picture that Coulson's looking at the shot of Macchu Picchu that Clint usually has the magazine open to. Coulson gets a faraway look in his eyes as he traces his fingers over the picture, and Clint smiles and turns back to dinner.

* * *

"Where's your girlfriend?" Barney asks when Clint stops by without Natasha.

"Packing," Clint answers instead of needlessly trying to explain that he and Natasha aren't together. Clint's pretty sure Barney does this, because it amuses him to use the surveillance on his room to start rumors.

The smile slips off Barney's face for a moment. "Ah. Going to be gone long?"

"Shouldn't be." Clint rests against the doorframe. He should be packing too, but he had to come here first. "If I'm alive, I'm coming back. If I'm not back in six months consider me dead." The op should only take two months. The extra time is a buffer in case something goes wrong.

"You don't have to do this every time," Barney says.

Clint thinks of the nights he spent staying awake as long as he could keep his eyes open, hoping that this would be the night Barney would come back for him. He thinks of the mornings, how he'd wake up with hope, thinking that maybe Barney snuck in while Clint was sleeping. He remembers the crushing disappointment when he realized that he was still alone.

"Yes I do."

* * *

Clint, Natasha, and Coulson become a specialized team, the people Fury sends to do jobs that no one thinks can be completed successfully. They collect stories they can't tell anyone, scars instead of medals or commendations, and together they have the highest success rate of anyone in the agency, for a given value of success.

They almost always secure their objective. Usually, things don't go to plan, but Clint and Natasha are good at improvisation.

Coulson's hairline starts receding once Clint, Natasha, and Coulson become a permanent thing.


	8. Chapter 8

Warnings: There's a montage of missions so there's going to be some violence. There's also a near-death for one of the characters

* * *

In Istanbul, Natasha gets kidnapped mid-operation. Clint, who had been playing bait and was already in enemy custody, breaks free of his restraints and goes on an impressive killing spree.

When it's over, the floor is littered with bodies, and he's been shot twice and stabbed three times. Clint reaches Natasha's holding cell, but he passes out before he can free her.

Natasha escapes in three minutes and carries Clint to the rendezvous point.

When Clint wakes up, Natasha hits him upside the head and tells him she doesn't need rescuing, especially if he's going to get himself killed in the process.

* * *

In Sofia, Clint learns how terrifying Natasha can be. They're dealing with a group of communist radicals who want to bring back the glory days of the USSR. Natasha infiltrates effortlessly.

Clint gets captured and dragged in, and Natasha doesn't even bat an eyelash when she sees him bloody and bruised and thrown in front of Sergei, the faction leader. There's no compassion to be found on her face when she presses the spiked heel of her boot to his throat and demands information.

There's a brief moment, when Natasha's nails are digging into fresh bruises that Clint thinks she's turned on him, that this is a set up, and he's going to die here, betrayed by one of the two people he trusts in the world.

And then Natasha's fingers brush the bullet scar on Clint's thigh. She knows that Coulson had shot him there, and he hasn't told her what the scar means to him, but he doesn't doubt that somehow she knows, and this is her sign to him. _Hold on, keep fighting, I know what I'm doing. Trust me._

So even though Natasha's next move is to inject Clint with hallucinogens that make him relive the worst parts of his childhood, he does. He gives up nothing and waits for Natasha to let him know what the plan is.

* * *

Budapest is a shit show.

* * *

Clint and Natasha both have a three month leave. One month is medical, the other two are mental.

Clint doesn't leave the medical wing for two weeks. He gets so antsy that they threaten to strap him down to the table.

He goes missing for the next three hours, hiding out from doctors who have needles that could be full of anything and who will drug him and restrain him, and Clint's hurting, he needs to be resting, but he can't trust these people, can't go back to his bed and pain meds and meals, because he doesn't want to wake up and find himself trapped.

Coulson's supposed to be on mandatory bed rest too, but he bullies someone into giving him a wheelchair, and he goes to the med staff break room and looks up at the ceiling and says, "Barton, come down, and I'll make sure you stay safe."

Clint's head is so muddled he's not even sure he can trust Coulson, but he sees the red seeping through Coulson's bandages, and Coulson is risking his recovery to come find Clint and fetch him, and Clint doesn't think about anything except getting Coulson back in bed where he can rest and recover.

They end up in the same room, their hospital beds side by side, and Coulson glares at anyone who comes too close to Clint without Coulson's permission and without explicitly telling him what they're planning on doing.

"You're the best handler ever," Clint mumbles at some point during the week he spends subsisting on IVs and morphine.

"Damn straight," Coulson says, his voice faraway and sleepy, because they have him on the good meds too.

* * *

They almost lose Coulson in Skopje.

At one point, Clint is elbow deep in Coulson's blood, literally holding Coulson's body together, keeping his innards from spilling out, from him losing too much blood before the emergency team can arrive.

Fury comes with the back-up team, takes one look at Coulson, and says that he'll handle the end of the mission.

Clint had used to think that Natasha was ruthless. And then he worked side by side with Nick Fury. They leave no one alive, and they leave no trace.

There's no debrief after the mission, no one has any recordings (audio or visual) of what happened in the compound when the three of them broke in. The official word is that after Coulson went down the mission was declared a wash and everyone packed up and went home.

* * *

Clint goes straight to Lacey when they get back from Skopje. "I have Agent Coulson's blood under my fingernails." He holds his hands up as proof.

They didn't have an appointment, Clint had just busted into her office and started talking, but Lacey takes it in stride. She doesn't even look at Clint's hands, taking him at his word, before saying, "You've had blood on your hands before."

Clint thinks of the people he's killed, how most of them were long range sniper shots. He thinks of the people he's strangled in close quarters, bludgeoned with heavy objects. He thinks of fist fights where he ended up with bruised knuckles and blood from the other guy's split lip on his hands.

He thinks of the terror he felt when Coulson went down, the panic that gripped his chest when red stained Coulson's shirt. He remembers frantically ripping apart Coulson's shirt and his Kevlar and then pressing skin together, like he could keep Coulson from bleeding out on the floor of a warehouse in Macedonia by sheer force of will.

He remembers Coulson mumbling, _mission first, Barton_, and how he wanted to smack Coulson for being an idiot, but didn't want to let go of the wound. He remembers watching Coulson's face drain of color while his body drained of blood. He remembers thinking _no, this can't be the end, I refuse to let him leave me_.

He doesn't really remember what happened when the back-up team arrived. There was shouting and orders and people trying to pull him back, and Clint fought back, because he wasn't going to let anyone take Coulson away from him. He wasn't going to give up on the one good thing he had in life.

He remembers Director Fury cutting through the haze of panic, _get your head on straight, Barton, we have work to do_. He remembers Natasha sliding up next to Fury. She looked at Clint, and she pushed the worry out of her eyes, replacing it with steely determination.

Clint doesn't really remember what happened after that. There was more blood. Lots more blood, but he wasn't trying to hold it in anymore. He was trying to force it out, bathe the floor in it.

"It wasn't the same," Clint finally says.

"Because you were trying to save a life?"

Clint's tried to save people before. He's stitched Natasha up in the field, done emergency medical work on some other agents he's worked with, but this was different. "I was trying to make sure he didn't leave me."

Lacey's face softens, slipping out of professional and into something more personal. She leans forward and puts a hand on Clint's knee. "I always welcome you coming to my office, but I think there's somewhere else you should be right now."

Clint thinks about the room they have Coulson trapped in. It's blindingly white and small and boring, and there are guards posted outside his door as he recovers from surgery. Clint doesn't even have access to the floor he's on, let alone the room.

"They won't let me in," Clint says. He wants to be there. He wants to grip Coulson's hand, hold on, make sure he can't leave.

"Since when has that stopped you?"

Clint looks up at her, really looks at her. "You're telling me to break the rules. You could get in trouble."

Lacey smiles, and it eases some of the pressure in Clint's chest. "Doctor-patient confidentiality. No one knows what's said in this room except for the two of us."

Clint returns her smile, and his is small and hesitant, but it's enough to break through the fog in his mind. He slips out of her office and sets to work breaking into the ICU.

* * *

Clint spends two days watching Coulson sleep which, he admits, is rather creepy, but he doesn't know what else to do. He's not going to risk getting sent to lock up by sitting by Coulson's bedside which is the non-creepy way to watch someone sleep so he stays in the ceiling, in the little nest he's built for himself and observes through the small hole he's poked in the ceiling tiles.

Halfway through day two, Coulson's eyes flutter open with looks like extreme effort. "Barton," he rasps. "Get down here."

It's an order from a superior officer, even if said officer is pumped full of drugs, so Clint pushes aside the ceiling tile he's been peering through and drops down to the floor.

It takes two minutes for Agent Taylor and his response team to show up.

"If I was an assassin he'd be dead," Clint says. He's sitting in the visitor's chair, hand firmly wrapped around the bed rail on Coulson's cot.

"You are an assassin," Taylor points out, looking both pissed off and relieved to see Clint sitting there. "You're also a menace. You need to leave."

"Agent Barton," Coulson slurs and everyone in the room turns to him. "These agents are making a racket. Escort them out."

Clint smirks as he slides to his feet. "My pleasure, sir." He advances forward and the junior agents step back. Agent Taylor holds his ground, and his eyes darken with each step Clint takes.

"You heard the man," Clint says, his voice low so he doesn't bother Coulson. "He wants you gone."

"He was a good agent before you got here," Taylor says, his voice equally low.

Clint smiles, baring his teeth. "Now he's a great one." He shoves Taylor back and then takes a deep breath so he shuts the door gently instead of slamming it.

* * *

The first thing Coulson says when he's off the drugs and mostly coherent is, "Barton, I hear you've been neglecting your training," but his fingers are touching the back of Clint's hand, and it sounds more like a thank you than a reprimand; though, Clint does start easing back into his training routine.

* * *

Clint and Natasha are reassigned to Sitwell while Coulson recovers. He's going to be in a wheelchair of a while, and then there's several long months of physical therapy, and Clint thinks that most people in most jobs would take their worker's compensation and quit their job.

Phil Coulson is not most people.

* * *

Barney's two year anniversary as a probie sneaks up on Clint. One day, he's stumbling back from an op that almost ended with Natasha getting burned at the stake, and the next, Barney's knocking on his door and saying, "I'm getting a transfer. Also, where are my cupcakes you jerk."

* * *

Clint's on his way to Lacey's, because he doesn't know how to deal with this when he passes Coulson's office. He hesitates, but the door is halfway open, so Clint makes a detour.

Coulson is at his desk, his desk chair tucked into the corner and stacked high with case files that need to be transferred to the electronic database. Coulson's doing probie work, and it makes Clint's blood boil, and he almost forgets that he came here to talk about himself.

"Something I can help you with?" Coulson asks.

"They're moving Barney to the West Coast division." Clint had managed to listen to Barney excitedly tell him about his transfer while Clint baked cupcakes. Barney was going to Oregon, and he was going to be Trickshot, and they were making him a ridiculous costume, and he was going to deal mostly with domestic problems, and Clint wanted to smile, because Barney seemed happy, actually happy for the first time since Clint can remember, but he couldn't.

He's been keeping track of Barney's work as a SHIELD agent. Well, it would've been hard not to, because there's always someone talking about Barney in the mess. How confident he is, how good he is with a bow, how he's really earned the name Trickshot. Clint feels a swell of pride each time he hears someone talk about his brother but at the same time, it's always been Barney with Clint dragging behind.

The first time Trick looked at Clint with wonder and said _you're going to be good, kid_, Clint knew he'd do anything for the man. And then Barney had come along and just like that, Clint was back to being the kid brother. Clint's always been second best, the curse of little brothers or something, and when Clint lost Trick, he got SHIELD and thought, finally.

And yet. Here he is again. He should at least be grateful that he gets to stay at SHIELD HQ instead of being the one to transfer. Clint would probably resign if they moved him away from Natasha and Coulson.

"We didn't think it wise to have you two working in the same building."

Clint smiles bitterly at that and wonders if the entire continental United States is enough distance between them. He knows it's not. Barney's reputation will reach Clint anywhere he goes, the big brother that Clint always wants to be as good as and never will be.

Clint tries to shrug, affect nonchalance. "Well, you're still out of commission for a bit, and Natasha's doing interrogation training for a while so maybe it's a good time for me to go back undercover. Middle East for a year?"

Coulson doesn't look up from his computer which is why he doesn't see the shrug and know immediately that something's off. "You and Natasha aren't going undercover for at least six months. Psych wants you close for observation. Standard protocol after," Coulson hesitates, "after missions like Skopje. Besides, you're still on mandated leave. You're not getting any kind of assignment right now."

"SHIELD could loan me to the NYPD. I can go undercover with narcotics or something. That'll keep me close."

"That's not what I meant," Coulson says. After a moment he turns away from his computer screen. "And you knew that." He looks troubled as he runs his eyes over Clint, the way Clint's got one knee tucked up to his chest like he's trying not to look like he's protecting himself. "You're usually direct about what's troubling you, which means you're really upset. What's going on?"

"You shouldn't transfer Barney. He's doing good work here."

"He's being reckless here. Good work gets done, but if he keeps this up he's going to get himself killed. It's you or him here, and we picked you."

_We picked you_. The words rattle around in Clint's head for almost a minute before he manages a disbelieving, "Sir?"

Coulson had gone back to his paperwork, but he turns to Clint now, understanding. "You set the bar pretty high, and Barney's going to get himself killed if he keeps trying to reach it so we're sending him to the West Coast. It's not a punishment, it's to keep him alive."

"I set the bar?" Clint knows that he should keep his mouth shut, work through the information on his own, but he has to verify. Coulson's lying to him, Clint's hearing wrong, this isn't the data Clint's been working with his whole life.

"You really?" Coulson shakes his head in amazement. "Barton, you're on your way to becoming a legacy here, and you're not even close to retiring. You went on a routine undercover op and brought the Black Widow to our side. You have the highest success rate of anyone in this building except for Director Fury. You make shots that most agents dream of and most of the time you do it with a bow and arrow. Not to mention, the rumors about what happened in Skopje are running rampant. According to the morning coffee gossip the three of you took out an entire HYDRA compound with one gun apiece and no back-up."

Coulson rolls out from behind his desk and over to where Clint's perched on the couch. "You're a damn good agent, and I don't plan on giving you up."

Clint nods, still a bit stunned. "Yes, sir."

Coulson's expression softens and reaches out a hand like he's going to brush his fingers over Clint's hand, and then he's pulling back and wheeling over to his desk. "I have work to do, and I hear from Natasha that you've been getting slow."

Clint recognizes a dismissal when he hears one. He pauses when he gets to the door. "Sir?"

Coulson looks up from his papers.

"I don't plan on giving you up either."

Coulson's hand drops to his stomach before he realizes he's doing it. "I know." His voice is quiet, trembling, and Clint leaves.

* * *

Clint and Natasha are put together for their first mission after Skopje, because no one wants to disrupt the team more than necessary, but Clint doesn't think it matters. Without Coulson, everything feels weird.

They're given an easy mission, standard intel, a few weeks spent in a cramped apartment with Sitwell, and Clint's skin starts to itch with the need to move two hours in.

"Oh, he's going to be a joy," Sitwell says as Clint gets up and walks around the kitchen twice before sitting back down. He's done this four times in the past fifteen minutes.

"Coulson knows how to calm him down," Natasha says.

Clint glares at her. "I'm not a dog."

She smiles sweetly back. "Maybe if you turn around three times you'll fall asleep and gives us some peace."

Clint flips her off and gets up to go pace around the bedroom.

* * *

That night, Clint and Natasha get into bed, back to back, one facing the window, the other facing the door so they're ready in case there's a break-in during the night.

Clint has a hard time falling asleep, because there's no one reading to them. Coulson always picks the worst books, because he claims Clint needs to get acquainted with the classics; though, even Clint has to admit that _Moby Dick_ did a good job putting him to sleep, but tonight there's nothing.

There's Natasha's slow, even breathing as she does that freaky thing where she tells herself to go to sleep and her body listens, and Sitwell's puttering around the bathroom, making an unnecessary amount of noise, but there's no soothing voice for Clint to focus on. Nothing to strip away Clint's thoughts and worries and anxiety until all that's left is peaceful contentment.

Twenty minutes into Clint's fidgeting, Natasha reaches a hand back and her fingers curl around Clint's thigh. Her hand is warm and familiar, and he focuses on that until he finally falls asleep.

* * *

After the first mission with Sitwell, they get a three week break to keep up with their training, and recover from small injuries.

There's a going away party for Barney, and because someone was stupid and let Barney plan it, it's circus themed and there's a talent show.

"Stop looking so glum," Coulson says when Clint makes his way over to Coulson's position in the corner of the room. "That's my job."

"Sorry. I'm more focused on the going away than the party part."

"I get out of my wheelchair in two days," Coulson says and Clint smiles for the first time this evening. "I still have a long ways before I'm up to being back in the field, but it's progress."

Clint tries not to smile too brightly at the news, but he doesn't succeed. "Hopefully not too long."

"I heard you and Sitwell didn't work well together."

"We aren't well-matched."

"And we are?" Coulson asks.

Clint shrugs and scuffs his foot on the floor. "I thought so, sir." Clint carefully doesn't look at Coulson's eyes. "I'm going to go enjoy the party now."

* * *

Natasha and Clint play musical handlers for a while. No one wants to work with them more than once. Everyone agrees that they're a terrifying team, but they also agree that Coulson's the only one who can handle them.

Which is how they end up on a mission with Agent Taylor who apparently is still pissed with Clint over the incident in the med wing.

The first night, Clint and Natasha get into their bed, and Taylor gets into his, and he clicks his fingernails for two hours. Clint plots how to kill him with every single object in the room.

The next night, Natasha hands Clint an earpiece. He slips it in, and a moment later he hears a familiar voice.

"Good evening, Agent Barton," Coulson says.

Clint's heart leaps up into his throat. He hears the rustling of pages and then Coulson is talking again.

"When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow."

Clint wraps his arms around his pillow and closes his eyes and lets Coulson's steady voice wash over him.

* * *

Coulson's first mission back as a handler is with Natasha. Tony Stark has just come back from the desert of Afghanistan, and he's declared that he's finished making weapons, that Stark Industries is going to expand in a new direction.

Fury thinks there's something off about the announcement, and he's concerned that if the board members can't lock Tony out of the company then they're going to kill him, and apparently Fury was friends with Howard Stark and feels some sort of obligation to keep Tony from getting assassinated by the company Howard built.

Clint doesn't really care about the assignment or Tony Stark. He cares that Coulson's first mission back is with Natasha. Not with Clint, not with the team, but with Natasha.

"Agent Coulson is back," Clint tells Lacey the day after he gets the news.

"You don't seem happy about that."

Clint leans back against the couch (he refuses to lie down out of principle). "I'm glad he's back in the field."

Lacey waits for the rest and when Clint doesn't say anything she prompts, "but?"

"I overheard some of the other handlers in the break room this morning. They were relieved that 'Barton's handler was back to keep him in line'. Agent Coulson isn't my handler." Clint falls silent and looks to Lacey, but she has her waiting face on, her 'I need more information before I can help you' face.

"He's not mine," Clint finally confesses, his voice small, ashamed, longing.

"Do you want him to be?"

"I," Clint forces him to think before he talks. He doesn't understand what it is about Coulson that makes him talk without thinking, but it needs to stop. Does he want Coulson to be his? He wants them to be each other's. He doesn't want to work with other handlers, and he doesn't want Coulson to leave him behind when he goes to work with other agents.

Coulson claims that Clint's a good agent, one of the best agents, but if that's the case then why don't any of the other handlers want him? Why can't they see that he does a good job? Why can't they accept that Clint knows what he's doing and leave him to his habits even if they don't follow standard protocol? Why won't Coulson stay with him if Clint's really as good as he says?

"I think Agent Coulson is a good liar."

Lacey puts her pen down. "Do you want to explain that thought progression to me?"

"No." Clint gets up off the couch. "I want to go shoot things."

* * *

Clint goes to a good luck dinner with Coulson and Natasha, and he even manages to look like he wants to be there the whole time. They tell the wildest stories they've heard about Tony Stark, speculate about what happened in the desert that's caused him to finally grow up, and Clint makes sure Natasha's brushed up on standard self-defense.

He knows that she could kill Stark with a fountain pen if he made an inappropriate advance, but that's not what a mild-mannered intern would do. He takes one for the team and makes sure that Natasha can clumsily (but effectively) knee him in the groin.

"I can handle myself against Tony Stark," Natasha says as she helps Clint to his feet. "But I'm touched that you care."

Clint smiles and then he has to look at Coulson and smile and wish him luck, and Clint manages to sound like he means it, because Agent Coulson isn't the only professionally trained liar in the room.


	9. Chapter 9

Two weeks after Natasha and Coulson are gone, Agent Hill comes to find Clint at the shooting range. She waits for him to finish emptying his quiver before talking which is why Clint doesn't blow her off.

"We have a mission for you," she says.

"Okay." Clint presses the button to bring the target in so he can retrieve his arrows.

"I haven't told you what it is." She looks amused.

"I have a choice?"

"You do on this one." She hands over a file.

Clint scans it. They want him working with Barney. They're supposed to go undercover, a circus act, because the circus in question is suspected of running a drug smuggling operation.

"You think I'm not up for it?"

Hill takes the folder back. "I wouldn't offer if I didn't think you were."

"Then why the choice?"

Hill looks at him for a moment, the way Natasha looks at him, close, peering into his face looking for answers. Hill's not as good as Natasha so Clint doesn't think she gets much. After a moment, Hill straightens her shoulders and gives Clint a sharp look. "You're taking this mission, Agent Barton, and that's an order."

Clint nods and starts taking his arrows out of the target's bullseye.

* * *

"Psych's gonna have a field day with this when we get back," Barney says. "Reliving our childhood and shit like that."

They're already having a field day, Clint thinks as he climbs out of the car and shoulders his ratty looking backpack. He and Barney are going hike out towards where the circus is set up and see if they can bum themselves a job. They've got no recommendations, no connections, but Clint's sure that if they can get an audition then they'll be fine.

Clint had gone to see Lacey before he left, because he was worried this was a bad idea. He made Agent Hill order him to take the mission, because Clint wanted to back out, but he didn't want to say no. Lacey was honest with him, which Clint had needed, and she told him that either this would go really well or really poorly.

Clint's life has never been about middle ground. He doesn't know why he thought this would be different.

And then he'd asked her the tough question. He asked her if she thought he'd come back to SHIELD after this mission. And she'd given him her 'I'm about to piss you off' smile and turned the question back on him.

Clint hadn't had an answer.

He still doesn't.

* * *

Barney and Clint introduce themselves as Darrel "Darry" and Ponyboy Curtis.

"Cute," the ringleader says in a way that implies he doesn't think it's cute at all. "Where'd you pick those up?"

"A book," Barney says.

"You read?" Clint asks. He gets a smack from Barney and a laugh out of the ringleader.

"Oh yeah," Murdock, the ringleader says. "You'll be a great team."

"The best," Barney says and he claps Clint on the shoulder. "Give us a chance to show you."

* * *

They get the gig, but they're outsiders so no one trusts them. They pitch a tent the first night and eat dinner on their own.

"Where'd you get the names?" Clint asks between bites of baked beans.

"I told you. A book." Barney hunches over, shovels food into his mouth.

It's his sign for conversation over but Clint presses. "What book?"

Barney sighs. "_The Outsiders_. Had to read it as part of my GED shit. It didn't suck."

From Barney, that's high praise. Clint lets the conversation drop and pretty soon they're getting ready for bed. Clint spends half an hour shifting restlessly before Barney kicks him and hisses, "You're a fucking sniper, can't you lie still?"

Clint gets out of the tent and runs around the dark for another half hour before going back to the tent. He closes his eyes and names gun models until he falls asleep.

* * *

Barney worms his way into the nightly poker games when he shows up with a bottle of cheap rum. He bets it and promptly loses it and suddenly Barney's in with the crowd and by extension, so is Clint.

Clint wins enough hands to keep him from being an embarrassment but not too many to look suspicious. He buys a Walkman with his winnings and gets _The Outsiders _on CD. The droll narrator isn't the same as Coulson, but it helps him sleep and that's what Clint was aiming for.

* * *

Clint's the anchor in their act. Barney is the one who does the dangerous stunts, flipping off high bars and vaulting off the ropes, and Clint is the one who's there to catch him and steady him long enough to go into the next trick.

Clint thinks the psych people would have a field day with that too.

* * *

Their third week with the circus, Clint's wandering around outside, pretending to be on a walk while trying to catch any signs of illicit activity when he hears the sounds of a scuffle. He was planning on walking by, because fighting among carnies is a way to establish a hierarchy and there's a strict no interference rule, but he recognizes Barney's grunt of pain, so Clint goes to investigate.

Barney's gotten himself into a fight with the strongman. Of course he has, Clint thinks, and then he's diving in and pulling Barney out before the strongman can land a hit to Barney's head that would've given him a concussion.

"Hey," the strongman—Derek—protests. "We're settling our differences." Derek casts a glance back at Anastasia, the contortionist that can do unreal things with her body. Clint tries not to sigh at the predictability.

"My brother is an idiot who can't keep it in his pants," Clint says, and he keeps a strong hold on the back of Barney's neck to keep him from wriggling away. "You're not going to pummel him for it."

Clint drags Barney back to the trailer they share with Doofus McGee, the clown (Clint's not sure whether this is actually an improvement over the tent or not).

"What were you thinking?" Clint demands. He throws open the door, clearly expecting Barney to go in.

Barney shoves him against the trailer instead. "What were you thinking? I was fighting. I was going to win, and then Stasia was going to be mine. Derek's a brute. She deserves better."

"So you're going to stick around and marry her?" Clint asks, making sure to keep his voice low. "Or are you going to bring her back to the West Coast?"

A bit of Barney's anger slips away at that, like he had forgotten that he has a job, that he isn't actually part of the circus.

"Well,"

Clint doesn't let Barney get any further. He shoves his brother off of him and storms back to the main tent. It's set up so they can practice or get drunk and play cards, and Clint gathers up all the darts he can find and starts throwing them.

* * *

Barney focuses better after his little wake-up call, and it doesn't take them long to figure out how the drugs are being smuggled. There's an extra set of barbells for the strong man that are too light. The inside of the weight is hollowed out, and the first time Clint checks, he finds carefully packaged white blocks.

He checks again after their show, and they're all still there. He continues to check periodically as they slowly make their way through their circuit. After the fourth stop, the cache is empty.

The next two stops bring them closer to the Mexican border. When Clint checks after the seventh stop, there's a new set of drugs.

* * *

"I've figured out how they're doing it," Clint says while he and Barney are headed to town for a supplies run. "And I know who in the circus is behind it. Now we just need the supplier."

Barney nods and then he spots Stasia heading, alone, back behind a store, and he runs after her. Clint suddenly misses Natasha, and it's a sharp ache in his chest that makes him find the nearest payphone and shove a few coins in.

"Hey!" A preppy pre-recorded voice says. "This is Natalie Rushman! I'm not here, because my boss is a taskmaster. Leave a message, and I'll call you back if I ever get time."

Clint grins at her cover and hangs up before the answering machine can beep and start recording. Natalie isn't Natasha, and the voice is too forced, too emotional, but there's a bit of Natasha lingering there, enough for Clint to settle back into Ponyboy.

Clint still thinks the name is stupid. He liked the book, he's listening to it for the third time now, but the name is stupid. And everyone at the circus has taken to calling him 'boy' even though he's definitely not a boy.

* * *

Clint has plans to tail Derek next time they get close the Mexican border, a guarantee given their performing schedule which implies that the ringleader might be involved in this too. Clint shares his plans with Barney who volunteers to keep everyone else distracted by getting them drunk.

It's not what Natasha would've done, but Barney isn't Natasha, and Clint doesn't want to start a fight so he agrees and everything goes according to plan.

On Clint's side at least.

Clint gets a description and even a name, Rodrigo Velazquez who is a low level guy in Miguel Antiguo's cartel. The CIA's been after Antiguo for years. As Clint slips back to base, he wonders if there's some way he can play this that will get him to Antiguo.

He wouldn't mind going deeper undercover. It's not like there's anything at SHIELD worth going back to anymore. His team's on a long-term mission, and he'd rather be chasing down Antiguo than shooting at stationary targets at the range all day.

When he gets back to base, everything is too quiet. There's no raucous laughter, no off key singing, no shouting out bets. Clint's cautious as he approaches the main tent, and he sees the shift of a shadow in the dark, and he pauses as he realizes that people have set up outside the tent. Standing guard. Waiting for him to come back.

Shit.

He bets their trailer is covered too. Someone has Barney and is probably hurting him, and Clint has no access to weapons or back-up.

He improvises.

He heads to the lion tamer's trailer, grateful that no one thought to stake that one out. He slips in, fumbles around in the dark until he finds the whip and slips back out. He now has a weapon. Time to start evening up the odds.

Clint takes out the people surrounding his trailer first. They're far enough from the main tent that no one hears them go down, and Clint makes sure they're unconscious before gagging them and tying them up in the clown's half of the room.

He and Barney hadn't brought guns with them, but Clint has a knife hidden away. It's still hidden so he grabs it and heads out towards the main tent.

He keeps his footsteps soft, but the person coming towards his trailer doesn't do the same. Heavy steps, boots, it must be the lion tamer himself, here to make sure everything's all right. Clint grins and snaps the whip. It curls around the lion tamer's wrist and Clint yanks.

The lion tamer curses and stumbles and Clint's fist catches the side of his face. Another well-placed hit leaves the lion tamer unmoving on the ground. Clint frees up the whip and moves on.

By the time Clint's taken out the perimeter, he's worked up a sweat, and he's starting to feel like himself again. He peeks in through the tent. Anastasia and the ringleader have Barney tied to a cot. Barney's pants are undone.

Typical, Clint thinks.

He's feels a brief flash of pity, because Barney's face is swollen and bruised and there's some blood oozing out of his mouth. Also, the ringleader has a gun trained at Barney's head.

"Answers," the ringleader says. "Where'd your brother go?"

"Told you. Took a walk and probably got lost. He's dumb as shit."

"Aw, Darry, that hurts," Clint says slipping into view.

The ringleader spins to face the new voice, and Clint had anticipated it, the whip moving as soon as Clint started talking. It slaps across the ringleader's arm, not enough to wrap around, but enough to make him drop the gun.

Clint throws his knife with his right hand and snaps the whip with his left. The knife buries itself in the ringleader's neck, and he drops to the ground. The whip makes a loud crack and keeps Anastasia from moving for the gun.

Clint cracks the whip at her again and then with a twist of his wrist sends the gun skittering towards him. He bends down to pick it up, eyes on Anastasia the whole time.

"Who the hell are you?" she demands.

Clint grins and shifts the gun to his left hand. "I'm Ponyboy Curtis, and I don't like people messing with my brother."

He keeps the gun trained on Anastasia as he moves forward. He plucks the knife from the ringleader's neck and wipes it off on his shirt before using it to cut Barney's bonds.

"Stay gold, Ponyboy," Barney grins.

Clint smacks the back of his head, because he hasn't forgotten that he's pissed at Barney. "I'm mad at you. Now we have to implement Plan B."

"Plan B?"

Clint nods.

* * *

Plan B is tie everyone up in the circus tent and wait for SHIELD to come collect them. While waiting for SHIELD, Derek returns with the new shipment of drugs. He gets tied up with the others. Barney knocks him out after five minutes, because he talks too much.

In a rare show of interagency cooperation, SHIELD hands over the captives and the drugs over to the CIA to help them with their investigation into Velazquez.

"I can do it," Clint says as he meets Agent Hill next to the car that'll take them back to SHIELD.

She looks over at where men in black suits are helping the carnies into nondescript black vehicles. "You could but so can they, and we have something for you that they can't do."

"I don't like not seeing a job through."

"You don't have a choice."

Does he ever, Clint thinks. He settles down into his seat and catches Barney's wave as his handler tries to wrangle him into a Volkswagen. Clint smiles and gives the smallest of waves back. It had been, well not good, but interesting working with Barney. Clint's not sure he's eager to repeat the experiment.

* * *

Debriefing with Hill is quick and efficient. She can't tell when Clint's deflecting or keeping something back, and Clint's grateful that Coulson isn't here, because this mission dredged up a lot of memories, a lot of old wounds, a lot of things that Clint doesn't want to think about.

Coulson would push until Clint talked, and he might not put everything in the official mission report, but he would make Clint talk about it, and Clint doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about how Barney isn't a good partner, how he can't be trusted to do the right thing, how he's easily distractible and it was annoying when they were kids but it's dangerous now.

The mission went south but in a manageable way. It could've easily gone to hell, and Barney doesn't even seem to realize. He's smiling and waving like nothing's wrong, like he almost hadn't been killed, because was trying to get laid.

* * *

There's no welcoming committee when Clint gets back. Natasha and Coulson are still out on their mission, and Clint isn't really close with anyone else.

It doesn't take him long to head down to Lacey's office.

"You're back," she says. "Should I take your visit to mean that it didn't go well?"

Clint shrugs. "It could've gone better." Barney could've been a better partner, Clint could've gotten to finish the job. But no one died and progress was made so it wasn't a total loss.

They sit in silence for about five minutes.

"Anything happen?"

"I started listening to audio books."

Lacey, the professional that she is, doesn't look shocked at the proclamation. "Listen to anything good?"

"All I had was _The Outsiders_, but I liked it. I might go buy some other books."

"What prompted this?"

He missed Coulson reading to him. Clint'll never admit that, so he shrugs. "I have trouble calming down enough to sleep. Listening to a book helps me." I felt alone on that mission even though my brother was there. I was missing my handler and my partner, and I almost didn't know how to function without them. I found a way, because I'm adaptable, and I refuse to need people, but it's not perfect.

* * *

Clint goes out and buys a random collection of audio books. He grabs some classics, grabs some nonfiction and some crime novels and he takes some stuff from the bargain bin. He doesn't think the books themselves are what's important but the voice.

He gets back into a training regimen and shakes off the rust as he starts using a bow and arrow again. He eats lunch on his own and has no one to spar with, and he pretends that he doesn't hear the whispers of 'Coulson's sniper' as he passes.

* * *

"I have a name," Clint says during his mandatory psych session. He probably could've gotten away with skipping since he's already been to see Lacey this week, but he doesn't really talk to people now that Coulson and Natasha are gone, and he finds himself needing to get words out.

Lacey will listen and she won't judge and she won't tell anyone what Clint's told her so she's a good person to confess his secrets to.

"You do," Lacey agrees.

"I'm Clint. Or Barton. Or Agent Barton. Specialist Barton, even. I have a nickname. Hawkeye. That's five different names for me."

Lacey nods and waits for Clint to get to the point.

"They're calling me Coulson's sniper again."

"And this bothers you?" Lacey asks. Clint gives her a look. Of course it bothers him, he wouldn't have bothered bringing it up if it didn't. She smiles. "Sorry. It bothers you. Why?"

Clint's confession is quiet, but in the silence of the room it comes out sounding too loud, "If I was his then he would take better care of me."

Lacey blinks twice in rapid succession, and it's the first time Clint can remember surprising her. "Clint," she collects herself and looks at him with her usual seriousness. "What do you want from Agent Coulson?"

That's a loaded question, and one that Clint has no plans on examining too closely. "More than I should."

"That's not very specific," Lacey says.

"I don't want to think about it."

"Did you miss him while you were on assignment?"

Clint thinks of how he had to buy a freaking audio book in order to go to sleep at night. He thinks about how he had to listen to Barney's inane chatter and gossip and how he'd desperately wished for radio silence. He thinks about how Coulson would never have gotten distracted by a pretty girl who could bring her legs all the way back to her ears.

"His presence could've made the op run more smoothly. Natasha would've been better."

"The three of you are a team," Lacey says. "It's normal for you to miss them."

Now the two of them are a team Clint thinks before he can help it. He closes his eyes and tells himself he's not going to be jealous. It's a stupid, useless emotion and completely inappropriate. They all go where SHIELD sends them. That's how it works. It's not like they chose to go off and leave him behind. He wonders if Coulson reads to Natasha at night.

"We're only a team when SHIELD needs us to be a team."

"You want permanence," Lacey says.

Clint laughs, because it's true and because he'll never get it.


	10. Chapter 10

As it turns out, Natasha isn't even needed to protect Tony from a covert assassination attempt. The assassination attempt isn't covert. Tony's mentor/business partner/dad's friend builds a giant robot and challenges Tony (who apparently is Iron Man) to a duel.

Tony fights the battle himself and wins, and Clint can't help but resent the man for taking Coulson and Natasha away from him and then not even using them when his life was in danger.

No one is as pissed as Natasha. She storms around SHIELD for a week muttering things about sexual harassment and menial work and stupid billionaires, and she forces all the new recruits to go a round with her in the sparring ring. She would've made them go again except most of them are on medical leave after the first time.

* * *

"You want to talk about it?" Clint asks. He comes into Natasha's room, bearing the gift of food.

"You cooked for me?" She eyes the pierogies with interest. "I heard rumors you could cook but that you only did it for Coulson."

"Clearly not." Clint sets the food down on the table, and he goes to grab a bottle of wine from her wine rack. "I thought we were talking about you."

"Wine?" Natasha's eyebrows pull together, and she's starting to scan Clint, and he holds the wine bottle up as a defense.

"No. Tonight is about you. Tell me about Stark."

Natasha groans and throws herself into her chair. "He's insufferable. He hit on me shamelessly, and the only reason I didn't kill him was because it appears to be reflex for him. He flirts instead of breathes, it's how he lives. It still got annoying though. And he still put me through menial work shit that I'm far beyond, but I got a few good hits in when I helped him off the pavement after he dueled Stane so I consider it a success."

"You hit him while he was down?" Clint whistles. "You were pissed."

"He tried to fire me." Natasha grins at that. "When I told him he couldn't, he asked me who I was. I told him that was above his security clearance."

Clint opens the bottle of wine and drinks to that.

* * *

Two days later, Stark swaggers into the mess and plops himself down at Clint and Natasha's table.

He turns his most charming smile on Natasha and says, "You're no longer above my security clearance, babe."

The whole mess goes silent.

Natasha regards Stark with her blankest expression meaning she could be on the verge of strangling him or she could be amused. "Then you should know better than to call me babe."

"She can kill you," Clint warns him. "And she can make it painful."

"I thought you were over aggressive with the stapler," Stark says.

Clint wonders if the man has a death wish.

* * *

"I heard you met Tony Stark," Coulson says. He's come down to the range to watch Clint practice.

Clint had come down, because he was too wired to sleep. Clint's access code lets him into the range at all hours, and he no longer needs supervision. It's the little things that get him through the day.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm surprised Natasha didn't hurt him."

"He funds SHIELD, and she values her job."

Clint keeps drawing arrows, keeps firing. It's mechanical, rote muscle memory. There's nothing satisfying about the release of the arrow or how it lands on target. He's shooting just to shoot, and it feels like he's sullying his profession by doing so, but he doesn't know what else to do so he just keep shooting.

He empties his quiver, brings the target in, retrieves his arrows and starts firing again. Coulson continues to stand next to him, silent but clearly not going anywhere. He's making Clint antsy. Why's he here? It's nearly 10pm. Shouldn't he be at his apartment? Or doing work? Or somewhere that isn't here?

"Is there something you want to say?" Clint asks once his quiver is empty again. He punches the button that brings the targets in.

"It's Thursday."

"And?" Clint starts yanking arrows out of the target.

"It's Thursday, and you didn't stop by my office."

Clint pretends like he hadn't known that was what Coulson was referring to. "It's been awhile since we were both on base. I must've forgotten."

Coulson's arm whips out, grabs the arrow Clint's just gotten a hold of. He keeps Clint from pulling the arrow out, forces Clint to meet Coulson's gaze. "You cooked for Natasha tonight."

Clint can see the flash of hurt in Coulson's eyes, and it makes Clint want to hit something. What right does Coulson have to be angry that he isn't special? He shouldn't be special. He isn't special. He's a handler, and Clint works with lots of handlers. Like Sitwell and Taylor. Clint isn't Coulson's and Coulson isn't Clint's, and Clint shouldn't treat him special, because it blurs lines that shouldn't be blurred.

"That traveled fast."

"She came to my office to gloat. Apparently the perogies were good."

Clint doesn't understand why they're having this conversation, and he doesn't understand why his skin's itching with the need to move, to get away from this conversation. Clint's allowed to cook for whoever he damn well wants.

"Of course they were good."

Coulson's hand is still on the arrow. He slides it up to meet Clint's so Coulson' index finger is brushing Clint's pinky. "Did something happen on the mission? Something you didn't include in the report?"

Clint's both pleased that Coulson read the report to check up on Clint and pissed that Coulson doesn't think Clint can handle a mission on his own. He doesn't like all these conflicting emotions that have started rising up when he's around Coulson. It makes Clint unbalanced, unpredictable, and he doesn't like feeling out of control of his own body.

Clint shakes his head.

Coulson eyes him like he knows Clint's lying and is trying to figure out the truth. "You're off."

Clint shrugs and abandons the arrow Coulson's holding and pulls out another one. "Kill shot every time."

"Right." Coulson lets go of the arrow and straightens his suit. "I'm headed home. Good night, Barton."

Clint nods and sends the target back to its spot.

* * *

Clint decides that he should personalize his quarters. He isn't going to start putting up childhood pictures (not like he has any), but he does find a display case for the first arrowhead he ever found, the one that has been with him through every move of his life. He puts that on his bedside table.

On the fridge, he scrawls out a quote from the _The Outsiders_ and hangs it up with an official SHIELD magnet. It's a quote from Dallas, and it sums up Clint's life so far pretty well. _You get tough like me and you don't get hurt. You look out for yourself and nothin' can touch you._

Of course, as soon as Clint finishes putting it up, he gets a text telling him to get down to Meeting Room 5, and it's in that meeting that he learns he's part of a test drive of a new team called the Avengers.

As of today, he's no longer just looking out for himself, but Natasha and Stark, and, if Natasha's and Stark's current projects are successful then Clint will have to add Bruce Banner and Steve Rogers to his group of people to look out for.

Clint leaves the meeting, unsure how he's been selected for this group, and wondering who has the harder mission. Natasha has to track down a scientist who is good at going off the grid and even better at getting people to back off, because he turns into a giant green adrenaline machine when he's provoked. Stark has to take a frozen super soldier and find a way to thaw him and bring him back to life.

And Clint? Well, Clint gets to help SHIELD tie up loose ends until the team is all present and ready to go. Clint's betting that the team never gets off the ground.

* * *

Natasha's thrilled about chasing Banner down, claiming that it's the first time she's been given an actual challenge since joining SHIELD. She's been wearing the biggest grin around for the past three days, and it has all the agents freaked out and occasionally checking their closets and under their beds for dead bodies.

Clint's the only one really sad to see her go when she heads off to start her search.

He doesn't get much time to think about it, because two days later, Sitwell finds him during training and gives him a picture of a target and asks, "You in?"

There are human trafficking charges leveled against the guy, and dozens of pictures of girls that have been snatched from their homes, a couple pictures of ones who have been found dead and Clint nods, his jaw tight.

* * *

They hit the road the next day. Clint doesn't tap his fingers in the car. He doesn't change the radio station just to piss Sitwell off. He doesn't even prop his feet up on the dashboard.

He takes out his CD player, puts his headphones in, and listens to _Lord of the Flies_.

An hour into the drive, Sitwell starts eyeing Clint warily, and the looks don't stop even after they've stopped at a motel for the night. Clint ignores them all, and he turns the TV on while they eat dinner, and he doesn't even sneer at the Steelers when Roethlisberger throws an interception.

And when the Steelers end up losing, in overtime, to the Ravens no less, Clint doesn't go out and buy Sitwell a pint of ice cream to cry into. Clint just gets ready for bed, puts his headphones back in, and listens to his book until he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

Clint's the first one to wake up, and he showers quickly and efficiently, and he even keeps the noise down so he doesn't wake Sitwell. He walks down the road until he finds a real coffee shop, and he buys Sitwell a coffee and himself a hot chocolate, and he brings them back to the motel.

The smell of coffee rouses Sitwell, and he frowns as he eyes the cup Clint's setting down on the bedside table.

"What'd you do to it?" Sitwell asks.

"Two sugars, one cream." Clint sips his hot chocolate, wishes it was closer to winter so it could be a peppermint hot chocolate, and goes to pack up this things.

* * *

They stop around noon to gas up and eat. Clint goes to the travel mart inside the plaza to buy some more double-A batteries.

When Clint goes to the small table Sitwell's gotten them, Sitwell's unpacking their greasy highway stop food and eyeing Clint's bag with suspicion.

"Just batteries," Clint says before taking a bite of his burger. He hope they'll be able to go to a grocery store tonight, because he's going to want a salad or at the very least some fruit with his dinner.

"You're acting odd," Sitwell finally says as they're tossing their trash and heading back out to the car.

Clint shrugs and as soon as they're back to the car he puts his headphones back in.

* * *

Clint maintains radio silence the whole op, just like he was told to do. He sits up in his perch and thinks about Piggy and Simon and wonders if Simon really is a stand-in for Christ.

He also thinks about conch shells.

He finally gets the target in his sight, but he waits for Sitwell to tell him to take the shot before firing. The bullet goes in clean, and the man drops to the ground. Immediately his security is scanning the area for threats.

Clint's finger itches to take them out too. To take out the whole group, but he hasn't been given that order so he takes his rifle apart and puts the pieces in their case before slipping out to find Sitwell.

* * *

They meet at the car, and Clint puts the rifle case in the trunk and pulls his CD player out of his backpack before sliding into the front seat.

Sitwell climbs in a moment later, and he looks over at Clint. "You shot him with a bullet."

Clint raises his eyebrows, considers saying something like _wow, your observational skills are outstanding, no wonder you're a professional SHIELD agent_. Instead, he says, "Yes."

Sitwell takes a moment to process this. "You didn't feel like using your bow?"

"SHIELD protocol states that I used a sniper rifle unless given permission by my handler." Clint puts his headphones in. "You don't like it when I use my bow." Clint turns his CD player on and closes his eyes.

* * *

After Sitwell is Taylor. Clint is on his best behavior. He doesn't talk back, doesn't fidget, doesn't do anything that could be even remotely irritating. He uses his rifle to take out the target, and he gives a proper debrief.

* * *

Clint gets a week off after his mission with Taylor. Clint knows the handlers are whispering about him, he listens in on their early morning coffee conversations, and they all seem to be freaked by his good behavior, and convinced that something big is coming up.

Clint doesn't understand how playing by the rules, something they've always wanted him to do, has made him more of a nuisance than before.

He slips through the ceiling and goes to check on Stark's progress with Project: Thaw an American Icon.

It's not all that interesting. Rogers isn't actually encased in ice, he's lying on a hospital bed, hooked up to a multitude of machines, and Stark is puttering around the room muttering to himself.

And then.

Sitting in the hospital chair next to the bed is Coulson. The man who's supposed to be Clint's handler. He's sitting at the side of an unconscious man instead of taking Clint on missions. Clint can't blame him. Coulson's childhood hero is right there, and clearly that wins out priority over Clint. Even if Clint is living and breathing and able to talk.

Clint doesn't spend much time there. It's not like he understands what Stark is saying anyways.

* * *

Clint goes out and comes back on three more ops. All successful. All with handlers that aren't Coulson.

Stark gets Rogers thawed, but that's confidential information that Clint isn't supposed to know. Apparently Stark and Coulson are in charge of bringing Rogers up to date on modern times.

Clint, bored between missions, calls Natasha. She doesn't pick up, but she calls him two hours later.

"India is wonderful," she says. "You should come vacation with me."

"You're not on vacation."

"Feels like it." There's a pause. "What's wrong?"

Clint debates telling her nothing, but she'll see through it, and there's no point in wasting her time by making her drag answers out of him. "Nothing." Then again, if she's treating this trip as a vacation then maybe she has the time to waste.

"Right. You've been keeping busy?"

"Five successful missions."

"Five? Have I been gone for that long?"

"I'm not getting a lot of downtime."

"You always get downtime." Natasha doesn't say that it's forced, but she doesn't need to. Clint knows his record, knows that handlers like to try and make him conform to the rules by benching him when he gets back from missions. He still did whatever he was going to do, because if a mission called for him, then Fury would override the suspension.

"Not anymore."

Another pause.

"You've been shooting with a rifle?"

"Gets the job done." Clint realizes that his voice sounds flat, that he hasn't put in the effort to make himself sound like a normal, adjusted human being. Natasha probably would've seen through it anyways, but he's getting sloppy.

"You're miserable," Natasha says.

"Is killing people supposed to be fun?"

"When was the last time you talked to Lacey?"

Since she wanted to talk about Coulson, and Clint doesn't want to even think about Coulson let alone talk about him. That hasn't changed. "I've been busy. Not much downtime, remember?"

"Clint," Natasha's voice is serious, telling him that he better pay attention. "I don't know what is going on over there, but it's clearly nothing good. You're going to talk to Lacey, and you're going to get your head straightened out, because I'm going to be pissed if I have to cut my Hulk Hunt short to come back and fix you."

Clint has to go talk to her anyway. They won't let him on another mission until he checks in with her and gets cleared, and Clint needs to go on another mission. And another.

"Bring me back some recipes," Clint says and then he hangs up.

* * *

Clint drags himself down to Lacey's office. She offers him a lollipop when he comes in.

"This isn't the doctor's office," he says, curling up on his corner of the couch, "and I'm not getting a shot."

"You've been avoiding me like you were going to get one." There's no accusation, no disappointment in her voice. It's an opening, she's giving Clint the opportunity to start talking.

"I've been busy."

"I've seen." She holds up his file. "You've also been good. No comments on your difficulty with authority."

"I must have a good therapist."

Lacey cracks a smile at that. "I've known that for years. I also know that we didn't have the kind of breakthrough that would produce these results." She waves the file. "So, why are you suddenly playing by the rules?"

"I'm SHIELD agent. I should follow SHIELD's rules."

Lacey waits.

"If I follow the rules then I get sent back into the field faster."

Lacey continues to wait.

Clint pulls his knees closer to his chest. "I'm not special. They shouldn't let me get away with breaking the rules."

"You aren't special? Did someone tell you that?"

He didn't need to say it, Clint thinks. He presses into the corner of the couch, letting the backrest and armrest support him, almost cradle him. Clint knows that he's not special. Coulson wouldn't have abandoned him if he wasn't.

First, Coulson had to go and get a new team. Clint wasn't enough so they'd formed Clint and Natasha, and now they have Clint and Natasha and Stark with the hopeful additions of Banner and Rogers. Rogers. Clint needs to stop that train of thought right now.

"The rules are there for a reason," Clint says. "They keep people safe."

"Did someone get hurt on a mission because of something you did?"

Clint shakes his head. "Am I cleared to go on missions again?"

Lacey doesn't seem upset that Clint's only here to get cleared. "You've been going out more often than usual. Are you nervous about being on a new team?"

"No." He isn't. He's not nervous, because there's nothing to be nervous about. He doesn't understand why he's been put on this team. There's a genius who turns into an indestructible monster, another genius who has a robotic suit, a super soldier, Natasha, and then Clint. Clint is a human, and he's weak and vulnerable, and he's not in the same league as all these other people.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Lacey asks.

"It's not going to affect me out in the field."

Lacey hesitates a moment before she nods. "I trust your judgment. I'll send the paperwork through."


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: So, I'm sorry I didn't make this clear at the beginning. This is canon-divergent from the Avengers movie. The is still a team called the Avengers, but they're going to be brought together in a different way, and the whole Loki-Tesseract-Chi'tauri thing doesn't happen. Sorry if that caused any confusion. Also, this marks the halfway point of the story. Thank you to everyone who is reading, I hope you're enjoying it.

* * *

Clint goes out on a long-term mission. Two months in the desert with Sitwell. It's not the worst assignment Clint's had; though, he almost drives himself insane by the end of it trying to play by the rules.

When the mission is over, Sitwell buys Clint an audio recording of _Great Expectations_. Clint's not sure whether it's a thank your or a bribe, but he puts it in his pile of things to listen to.

* * *

When Clint gets back on base, everyone's in an uproar. Apparently it's now public knowledge that Steve Rogers is alive and running around SHIELD. Literally. He's not allowed out of the building, and the gyms are locked at night so he's taken to sprinting through the hallways in the dead of night.

No one warns Clint of this, of course. He gets back from his mission, debriefs, boils pasta while he showers, and then eats on his own once he gets out. He's too wired to sleep so he goes to the shooting range and listens to a bit of _The History of Love_ which is better than the title implies, and then he goes to the gym.

At this point, it's 11PM, and Clint is almost bowled over by the super soldier while headed down the hallway.

"Sorry!" Rogers skids to a halt and turns as Clint is regaining his balance. "Are you all right? Usually there aren't people around this late."

"I've been gone." The hallway is dark, because apparently running in the dark is what thawed super soldiers do, and Clint can only make out a bulky shadow.

"So was I." There's too much bitterness in his voice to pull it off as a joke. "I'm Steve Rogers, by the way."

"Agent Barton." Clint doesn't want to like this guy, but it's kind of hard to not like Captain America. Plus, he doesn't have a good reason for not liking him. Coulson's allowed to have role models that he looks up to (obsesses over), and it's not Steve Roger's fault that Barney pretended to be his alter ego and constantly pretend killed Clint.

"You're a part of the Avengers too."

Oh, right. They're teammates. Another reason Clint shouldn't hate him for no good reason. "Yes."

"Well, in that case, mind if I drop the agent?"

"Excuse me?"

Even in the dark, Clint thinks he can see Rogers smile. "Can I call you Barton or are you really proud of the agent part?"

Against his will, Clint's lips turn up into a smile. "Barton's fine. Besides, I'm only a junior agent." There's a moment of silence that could easily get awkward, but Clint turns to Rogers and says, "I can get us into the gym. It's actually where I was headed."

"Okay."

They're at the doors to the gym when Clint realizes he should probably warn Captain America before he illegally breaks them into the gym. "You realize this is against the rules, right?"

The light is better where they are, and Clint can see the grin, wide and brilliant and a little bit daring before Rogers says, "I've never been good at following the rules."

It's unexpected, and it's human, and the man standing before Clint shifts from Captain America to Steve Rogers, and Clint nods before getting to work hacking the security password.

* * *

Stark crashes Clint and Steve's lunch the next day. One minute, Clint is trying not to gawk at the sheer amount of food Steve can eat, the next Stark is plopping down into a free chair and glaring at Clint.

"I hate you," Stark says, jabbing his finger in the general area of Clint's chest.

"You shouldn't say things like that," Steve says, admonishing, his eyes wide and innocent, and completely at odds with the man Clint's been getting to know. The Steve he knows curses and tells war stories and uses dirty tricks whiles sparring.

"What?" Stark turns from Clint to Steve back to Clint. "How have you already gotten him on your side? Haven't you only known him for a day? I've been introducing you to the glory of the 21st century, and you're passing me over for Clint?"

"Barton," Clint interjects. "Not Clint."

Stark waves a dismissive hand. "Whatever. Not the point." Stark turns the full force of his glare on Steve who is looking immune to it. "You're cheating on me, Cap."

"Cheating?" Steve blinks and tilts his head to the side. "I don't understand."

There's no way that's real, Clint thinks. His suspicions are confirmed, a moment later, when he sees the smile tugging at the corners of Steve's lips. Stark is oblivious as he starts ranting about fairness and the internet and Starkphones.

"Why do you hate me?" Clint interrupts once he starts getting a headache.

Stark pauses mid-rant, shifts his attention to Clint and scowls. "I've been trying for the better part of two months to get Cap to bend the rules, and it only takes you one night to get him breaking into the gym? He doesn't do anything like that with me."

Clint looks over at the so very obviously fond smile on Steve's face, and the way his hand creeps towards Stark's then scuttles back to safety then creeps forward again. "Maybe he's playing hard to get."

Steve's eyes widen, and there's a bit of a blush on his cheeks, and Stark pounces immediately. Clint laughs and takes his lunch back to his room.

* * *

Natasha calls the next day.

"I heard Stark is now flirting with Rogers, and it's all your fault," she says.

"Hello to you as well." Clint sits down on his couch. "Are they still at the flirting stage? I thought Stark would have them at least making out by now."

"He's taking things slow," Natasha says and Clint wonders how her intel is this good when she's an entire hemisphere away. "Apparently he doesn't want to frighten Rogers' 40s sensibilities."

"He's still playing him?" Clint's impressed. Maybe they should get Steve in on some of their undercover ops. "Is Stark really that dumb?"

"No," Natasha says, and her voice has lost its previous humor. She sounds serious and tired, and Clint wonders if he should offer to help her find Banner. "He's loud and flashy, but it's a cover. He's a mess."

"We're all messes," Clint points out, but he understands what Natasha is doing. She's giving him background, warning him to tread carefully, because they won't be able to work as a team if they spend all their time triggering each other.

"We've had time to recover. It's only been a few months since Stark's surrogate father tried to kill him. Not to mention the whole kidnapped and tortured by terrorists thing."

"Right." Clint now has a whole new person to learn the ins and outs of. He's spent the past few years getting to know Natasha intimately enough that he knows what to talk about, what to avoid, when she wants to be comforted, when she needs to be left alone. Now he has to go through the same process with Stark. And Steve. And soon Banner. Clint wonders if there's enough space left in his brain for all the information it's going to start carrying.

"We are messes." Natasha laughs. "Banner will fit right in."

"I've seen his sheet." Trust issues that rival Natasha's, daddy issues that rival Stark's, self-esteem issues that rival Clint's. Clint's not sure if Banner's actually going to be a positive addition to their ragtag group.

"Ours aren't any better." The serious voice is back.

"Something's bothering you."

A weak laugh. "I'm racing against General Ross. I can't let him win. Do you know the plans they have for Banner if they get him?" Natasha doesn't give Clint a chance to answer. "Experimentation, brainwashing, they want to dissect him and remake him and turn him into a weapon."

Oh, Clint thinks. This is personal.

"I'm going to rescue him," Natasha says. _I'm going to rescue myself._ "They won't get him." _I'll make sure of it. I'll kill them all if I have to._ "And I'm going to bring him back. A life on the run isn't a life, and he deserves to feel safe somewhere." _I've found a home, and I want to share it with him_.

"They couldn't have put a better agent on the case," Clint tells her.

* * *

Sometimes, SHIELD is too much for Clint. There are too many floors, too many walls, too much keeping him trapped. On nights like these it feels like his room is closing in around him, and he can feel his throat closing as well, and he stumbles out of bed, gasping for breath, and he heads straight up to the roof.

Tonight, there's already someone on the roof when Clint gets there. He recognizes the broad shoulders right away even though they're hunched over, long arms wrapped around knees that are tucked close to Steve's chest. Clint debates whether he should sit down next to the super soldier or leave him to his musings.

Clint's always fine once he gets out of the building. Once he's got fresh air, and the entire world opened up around him, his hands stop twitching, the adrenaline starts to simmer, and he can breathe easy. But most people come up onto rooftops to get away or to think, and Clint doesn't want to get in Steve's way.

"Did they send you to check up on me?" Steve doesn't even turn around. Clint wonders, again, if maybe Captain Rogers missed his calling as an international spy.

"No." Clint comes over and sits down next to Steve, but he leaves enough space between them that Clint doesn't feel hemmed in. "I had trouble sleeping."

Steve huffs out a laugh. "I can't remember the last time I didn't."

Clint puts his palms down behind him and leans back. Manhattan is noisy, even at night, but it isn't overwhelmingly loud. The lights and the noise are comforting, a reminder that there are other people out there, other people who are carrying on with their lives.

Steve pulls up the hood of his SHIELD issued sweatshirt and curls even more in on himself. Clint wonders if this late night musing has anything to do with Stark's suspicious absence the past few days, but Clint doesn't want to bring up any sore subjects.

"It's not just the ice. I expected that. I dream about the ship about crashing, about my body freezing from the inside out. I dream that I wake up even further in the future. That I don't wake up at all." Steve drops his chin to his knees. "But I also dream about them. About Peggy and Howard and Erskine and Bucky."

Steve's voice breaks on the last name, and Clint doesn't know what to do. Barney never got emotional in front of Clint. Natasha isn't really big on crying in front of people either, so Clint has no experience here. Does he look away? Does he change the subject? Does he pat Steve's back?

"I just," Steve pauses and turns towards the sky. "I've lost people before. My parents, kids at the orphanage, men in my unit. And it hurts, and I don't want it to hurt so I throw myself into a different relationship and pray that this is going to be the one that lasts."

Clint knows too well what that's like. About needing people but always losing them. About wanting just one person that will always be there, that will never leave. He doesn't think one person is too much to ask for. Life seems to think otherwise.

"This is why you and Stark aren't talking? You're afraid to lose him so you figure you'll push him away?" Clint smiles when Steve's head jerks towards him. "I'm a SHIELD agent, remember? I'm good at reading people."

"What about fixing them?"

Steve sounds so lost that Clint reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder before he really thinks it through. Steve leans into the touch.

"We're going to be a team," Clint says after a moment. "We're going to be close. If something ever happens to one of us, it's going to hurt." Maybe that's why Clint isn't thrilled about this new team. At least when it was just him and Coulson and Natasha, there were only two people he could lose. Now there's going to be five, and five means a higher chance that he will lose one.

"Is this supposed to be encouraging?"

Clint laughs and drops his hand. "If something happens to Stark, it's going to hurt you whether you're together or not. Might as well be together."

Steve is quiet for a long time. "That actually makes sense."

"I do what I can."

They're shoulder to shoulder now, watching the cars below them weave in and out of late night traffic. Clint's always amazed at how there can be traffic in Manhattan at any time during the day, or night.

"So that was me." Steve turns to look at Clint. "You want to talk about why you're on the roof late at night?"

"I don't talk much." Clint thinks it's something he needs to make clear, because he seems to be doing a lot of talking around Steve Rogers, and if they're going to be on a team together, then Steve needs to understand Clint's ins and outs as much as Clint needs to understand Steve's.

"Okay." Steve unfurls so he's stretched out on his back, staring up at the sky. The stars are barely visible, because of the light of the city, but some of the brighter ones shine through the smog and human influence. "At least these didn't change."

Clint lies down next to him, and they stare up at the sky until they drift off into a restless sleep.

* * *

Clint goes on another mission and comes back. Steve and Stark are talking again. Steve has stopped looking completely lost, and his smiles are starting to look more genuine. Stark is still a pain in the ass.

Clint is coming back from his post-op psych eval when he sees Coulson. It's the first time Clint's seen him in a while, not that Clint's avoiding him, it's just that SHIELD is a large building and when you don't actively seek a certain person out it's easy to go a long time without seeing them.

They've made eye contact so Clint can't walk by without saying anything. He settles for a curt nod. "Afternoon, sir."

Coulson's right eyebrow twitches, one of his tells that he's annoyed. He forces a smile to his face. "Good afternoon, Barton. Are you cleared?"

"Yes."

They're standing in the middle of the hallway now. People have to walk around them to get where they're going. Clint wonders when things got so painfully awkward between them. No wonder Coulson doesn't want to take him on missions. They would be absolutely unbearable.

"Good. I have an assignment for you. Walk with me."

Clint follows Coulson down to the very bottom floor of SHIELD. This is the floor where all the experimental stuff happens, and it's encased in the best tech Stark can invent so that the rest of SHIELD doesn't get blown up when experiments go wrong.

This is the level for geniuses. Clint has no idea what he's doing down here.

And then Coulson points to an observation window. Clint looks through to see a small woman in baggy khakis and an oversized sweater puttering around a glowing blue cube. The woman's sleeves keep falling down and she pushes them up, taps her pencil against her lips and by then her sleeves have slipped down again, and she has to repeat the process.

"You want me to find clothes that fit her?"

Coulson gives Clint a sharp look that says _I don't think you're funny_. "That is Dr. Jane Foster. The scientific community thinks she's insane, but she's brilliant. She sees things that shouldn't be real but are. She's in charge of a highly sensitive, highly classified study of the Tesseract." Coulson points to the blue cube. "You're going to protect her and observe her research and make sure she doesn't starve to death, because she's too excited about science."

"I'm on babysitting duty?"

"You're on the 4pm to midnight shift," Coulson says. "That should give you plenty of time to rest and keep up with your training."

Clint knows better than to argue so instead he says, "Who else is on my team?"

Coulson grins. "You meet them tonight."


	12. Chapter 12

Clint goes to the SHIELD rec room at 6:30pm as ordered, and if he hadn't had orders, he would've turned around as soon as he heard _Lucky_ blasting from the speakers. He has no idea who's in the rec room, but if they're having a Britney sing-a-long then he doesn't want to meet them.

When Clint finally pokes is head inside, he sees Dr. Foster up on the pool table, head banging to Britney Spears. Clint doesn't get paid enough for this. He steps in, fully prepared to pull her down off the table when he almost gets bowled over by a young woman holding a stack of pizzas.

"Delivery for the doctors!" the newcomer exclaims, laughing when she sees Dr. Foster. "Jane, get off the pool table. You've had one sip of beer. You can't possibly be drunk yet. Selvig, what happened to keeping an eye on her?"

An older man emerges from the corner he'd been hiding in. "I was keeping an eye on her. Unfortunately."

Dr. Foster hops off the pool table, and her hair is tangled mess, and her cheeks are red, but her eyes are bright and alive.

Clint's still standing in the doorway. As the three descend on the pizza, he clears his throat. "Dr. Foster?"

Her head jerks up, and she finishes taking a giant bite out of her slice of pizza before handing it to the other woman and bounding over. "Hello!" She gives Clint a hug, getting grease on his shirt but not seeming to care. "You must be Agent Barton. Want some pizza?"

The other woman holds out the box. Clint hasn't eaten dinner yet, but he's feeling overwhelmed. Maybe he'll wait to eat until mandatory get to know your team time is over. He wonders when his team will come in.

"Silly question." Dr. Foster laughs and grabs two slices of pizza, drops them on a paper plate and hands it to Clint. "Everyone wants pizza."

"You're very energetic," Clint says as she bounds off to grab the drinks from the other side of the room.

The second woman laughs and tosses her hair over her shoulder. "It's because she likes you. If she didn't, you'd be getting the silent treatment."

"My first impressions aren't usually this good." Clint doesn't point out that most of his first impressions end with putting a bullet in someone's head.

"You called her Dr. Foster. Immediate bro status. Congrats by the way." The woman holds her hand out for a fist bump.

Clint eyes it dubiously. "Of course I called her Dr. Foster. What else would I call her?"

Dr. Foster gets back for the tail end of their conversation, and she scowls as she slams the 2 liter of Coke on the table. "Some people," she glares out the door, "think that, because I'm a woman I should be Miss Foster. I'll have you know that I put in many long years," the second woman coughs and Dr. Foster rolls her eyes, "fine, I put in a shit ton of work in order to get my degree. I'm Dr. Foster."

Clint nods and accepts a cup of Coke from her even though he doesn't care much for soda. "I will keep that in mind, Dr. Foster."

She smiles and pats his cheek. "You've already shown that you respect me as a woman and a scientist. You can call me Jane now."

"That would be unprofessional, Dr. Foster." Clint picks up his pizza and takes a bite as Dr. Foster starts pouring some rum into her cup of Coke.

"Please don't be boring," the second woman says. "I'm Darcy, by the way. Not a doctor, but I'm still pretty cool." Darcy grins and slaps at Dr. Foster's hand when Dr. Foster doesn't stop pouring.

Dr. Foster pouts but caps the rum. "You're being boring. You don't get to lecture Agent Barton on being boring when you're boring."

"I'm the one who has to put you to bed," Darcy says, "which means I get a say in how much you have to drink." Darcy grins and snatches the rum from Dr. Foster and hands it to Clint. "Hide this, would you? She's too sneaky for me."

Dr. Foster smiles, bright and brilliant and like she's a college freshman on her first night out and not someone who firmly believes in the existence of extra-terrestrials and that she knows how to find them.

"So you're Dr. Foster's friends?" Clint asks as he tucks the fifth into his jacket.

Darcy laughs and slings an arm around Dr. Foster's shoulders. "Friend, assistant, glorified babysitter." She grabs a piece of pizza with her free hand and attacks it.

Clint leans back in his seat. This is his team? This must be Coulson's idea of a joke. He can tell, because it's not funny. Darcy looks like she's barely out of college, and she doesn't have any training. Did Coulson just pick her up off the street? And the old guy is, well, he's not really old, more like a little past middle age, but in the protection business, that's old. Clint doubts he'll be much of a help in a fight.

"I'm in charge of making sure Jane sleeps and puts something besides coffee in her body," Darcy says. "And Dr. Selvig is in charge of doing science with her so she talks to someone besides herself every once in a while. And you're making sure no one answers her signal and kills her."

Clint had gotten a debriefing on the Tesseract. Apparently it has otherworldly energy readings, and Dr. Foster is convinced that she can contact the makers of it if she's given enough time and resources. Clint has no idea why they want to invite aliens to Earth—he's seen that movie and it doesn't end well—but he's not the one in charge of SHIELD. So Dr. Foster is trying to arrange an intergalactic play date, and Clint is in charge of keeping everyone alive.

Clint puts a smile on his face and reaches for his piece of pizza. He needs Natasha to come back so they can form the Avengers, and Clint can escape the assignment from hell.

* * *

The job is boring but not bad. Clint sits up in his perch and watches Dr. Foster work. Every once in a while a SHIELD agent stops by with coffee or food, and he makes Dr. Foster eat it, but mostly it's sitting.

She putters around the room, talking to the cube, touching it, running tests, and taking notes. Sometimes she yells at the cube. Sometimes she throws pencils across the room. Sometimes she hops around on one foot and sings _Bohemian Rhapsody_ as loud as she can.

Clint listens to books and does push-ups and core and finds little things to keep him busy. Every ten minutes he checks in to make sure everything's all right. Everything's always all right except for the time that he looked up and Dr. Foster was in the corner, her hands over her head and rocking back and forth.

He'd had to call Darcy in to handle that situation.

Apparently they'd gone out to a bar and gotten so drunk that Dr. Foster was dancing on the table and had to be escorted out by the bouncer. Clint doesn't get written up for the incident and beyond that, he doesn't care about it.

* * *

Friday night at 9pm, Darcy bursts into the room. Clint had heard the footsteps so he isn't startled when she comes in, but he is curious as to why she's here three hours early.

"Time to get ready!" Darcy plucks the pencil out of Jane's hands and drops it next to the notebook. She turns Jane around and gives her a push towards the door.

"Where are you taking her?" Clint asks because he's pretty sure this is kidnapping, and he's supposed to put a stop to it.

Darcy looks at him like he's stupid. "It's Friday night. We're going out. And you're coming with us."

Clint gives her a _good luck with that_ face.

Darcy grins. "You're in charge of keeping an eye on her until midnight. Therefore, you're required to go where we go." She beams in the face of Clint's glare and hustles Dr. Foster out the door.

Clint considers going and complaining to Coulson about this, but that would require talking to Couslon, and he's pretty sure Coulson would only laugh at him so Clint sighs and locks up the room before going to change.

* * *

The girls meet him outside his room. He has no idea how they knew where his room is, and he's annoyed that Dr. Selvig managed to get out of this trip, and Darcy pushing him back into his room and saying _you can't possibly go out in that _doesn't improve his mood.

They get to the bar, one of the less swanky places near SHIELD but not a total dive, and Darcy goes to get drinks. Clint is assigned to getting Dr. Foster to a table. He thought they should switch but Darcy had just patted his cheek and told him he didn't have the cleavage needed to get their drinks in a timely fashion.

There's nothing to say to that so Clint half-drags Dr. Foster to a booth in the back. It's near the pool tables and the dart board, and Clint can see the entrance and the back exit with minimal turning.

Darcy returns with three shots and three beers expertly balanced. She sets a beer and a shot down in front of everyone. Darcy and Dr. Foster lift their shots and look expectantly at Clint.

"One of us has to be clear-headed."

Dr. Foster is happy to knock back her shot and his.

"You need to loosen up," Darcy says. She pushes the beer towards him. "At least drink that. I doubt it'll even get you buzzed."

It won't. Clint takes a sip.

Darcy, emboldened by her success, leans forward. Clint could stare straight down her shirt if he wanted to. He doesn't. "Now that we're drinking together, you going to tell us your first name?"

"Not likely." Clint scans the bar for threats. It's early so most people are on their way to tipsy, but there are a few people who are stumbling around already. No one dangerous.

"We're out drinking at a bar on a Friday night," Darcy says. "I'm not calling you Agent Barton. And calling you Barton makes it sound like we're on a rugby team together or something, and that's just weird. So, name?"

Clint briefly considers what the consequences of not answering would be, and he decides that three hours of being pestered for his name are not worth it. "Clint."

"Clint's a good name," Dr. Foster says. "So's Jane. So use it." She smiles and takes a sip of her beer.

Clint wonders how this became his job.

* * *

After Dr. Fo—Jane finishes her beer she heads out to the dance floor. Darcy assures Clint that she'll be fine on her own and that they can keep an eye on her from here.

"She just has a lot of energy to let out," Darcy says as Jane starts jumping up and down and waving her arms. The people around her give her a wide berth. "It's hard to be that smart."

Clint wouldn't know. Of the many things he's been called in his life, smart has never been one of them.

"I think that's why she chose me to be her assistant." Darcy picks at the label on her beer. "I was a polisci major, and I applied for the job on a whim. I was bored, and I was tired of my parents harassing me because I was doing nothing with my life so I when saw that some superfreak genius needed someone to fetch coffee, and I signed up. I even landed an interview, and I thought it was all over after that. I couldn't keep up with her ramblings or understand her research, but I guess she needed a friend more than she needed someone who understood her brain."

Darcy looks out at the dance floor again. Jane's pushing sweaty wisps of hair out of her face and dancing completely off beat to the music. Darcy's lips curve into a fond smile.

"And now that you're playing babysitting and filling out confidentiality forms?" Clint asks. "Does it still seem like a good idea?"

Darcy grins. "Certainly not bored anymore." She grows serious again a moment later. "I feel like I'm doing something. I mean, I'm no genius like Jane, and I'm no hero like Iron Man, and I didn't even get accepted into the Peace Corps. I want to do something with my life. I want to do something good, and it turns out that all those people that make the headlines, the people that change the world, they need back-up. They need support people behind them so they can do all those things. And that's enough for me."

The smile comes back to her face. "Plus, now when my parents bug me about what I'm doing, I can tell them that it's classified."

* * *

Jane dances for an hour and comes back for a beer. They chat about grabby guys and how belt buckles digging into your lower back is painful and not a turn on; well, Jane and Darcy chat. Clint scans the room and wishes he was anywhere but at this table listening to these conversations.

Jane, a little unsteady on her feet, weaves her way towards the stage where karaoke is being set up.

Darcy laughs gets to her feet. "This is the best distraction there is. She'll sing and dance and sing, and I can get away with not watching her for a bit. I'm going to dance. You want to join?"

Clint looks at the sweaty mass of people on the floor and shakes his head. Darcy shrugs and heads out to the dance floor. Clint takes a half-hearted sip of his beer and checks on Jane. She's looking through the song options, and a couple people come up to look beside her, and one guy puts a hand on her shoulder, but she shakes him off easily enough.

Clint stands up to stretch his legs and finds himself by the dartboard. Jane is still looking at songs. Darcy is dancing with a guy who looks like he can't believe his luck. Clint takes a green dart in his right hand and a red one in his left and starts competing against himself.

He's on his second round when Darcy wanders over, sweaty but happy. "You're good at this." She motions to the clusters of bullseyes.

"I'm a good shot."

"Clearly. Since I have no chance against you in this, how about a game of pool?" She jerks her thumb towards the empty pool table. "Loser buys the next round of drinks?"

Clint shrugs. He can keep an eye on Jane from the pool table.

* * *

They play a couple rounds of pool, laugh as Jane gives _Love Story_ a good try, and by the time they're helping Jane out of the bar it's past 2am, and Clint hadn't even noticed.

They walk back to SHIELD, Jane being supported by Darcy on one side and Clint on the other. Jane's impossible to hold onto, she keeps slipping out of their grasp and trying to fall asleep on the ground.

Finally, Clint picks her up and throws her over his shoulder, and Darcy takes about a dozen pictures as they head into SHIELD.

"This is very undignified," Jane says as Darcy holds the doors open.

"Maybe you shouldn't drink so much then," Darcy says.

"You're awfully mean to me," Jane says. "I should fire you."

"Can't. I'm employed by SHIELD now. Besides, who would take care of you in the morning if I wasn't around?"

"Very true. You're still mean."

Darcy laughs, the sound echoing through the empty hallways.

* * *

"I heard you went out last night," Stark says, sliding into one of the empty seats at Clint's lunch table. Steve trails behind him and sits down as well. Clint says farewell to his peaceful lunch. "Jane must be wild when she gets drunk. The more brilliant you are the harder you go."

"Would you like to go next time?" Clint asks. "I'm sure Dr. Foster would appreciate a karaoke partner."

"I do do a very good rendition of the Star-Spangled Man," Stark muses. Steve turns bright red and eats a third of his sandwich in one bite. Clint and Stark both stare. "Holy shit your mouth," Stark says.

"Wow," Clint says picking up his fork. "You two really are moving slow."

Steve chokes and blushes. Stark gawks.

"Where did you find snark?" Stark asks.

Clint stabs at his salad. "Is there a reason you two are here?"

"We're a team," Steve says now that he's recovered. "We thought we'd eat lunch together."

"He thought," Stark is quick to point out. "I think lunch is a waste of time, but those with unreal metabolisms think differently."

Team, right, Clint thinks. He should call Natasha and check in.

"You wouldn't think lunch was a waste of time if you didn't eat a morning snack of ice cream and brownies," Steve says reprovingly.

"Hey, mornings are stressful. I need my comfort food."

Clint can't believe he's going to be on a team with these people. He's going to be trusting them to watch his back. He watches Steve tear his second sandwich in half and hand it to Stark, expectation clear in Steve's eyes. Clint supposes there are worse people to be on a team with.

* * *

On Monday, Clint finds out through grapevine chatter that Natasha's gone off grid. Apparently there was a Hulk incident brought on by General Ross who had managed to find him and now there's nothing from Natasha, Banner, or the Hulk.

Clint's torn between storming Coulson's office and demanding to know why Coulson didn't tell him this personally and storming Director Fury's office and demanding to be put on the rescue team.

As it turns out, Clint doesn't have to decide. He's in the mess for lunch when he hears, and his tray is still shaking in his hands when Director Fury strolls through the doors like it's normal to take a lunch break when one of your best agents is possibly dead out in the middle of India.

Clint should take his tray over to his table and eat lunch. He should put his tray down and walk out the door. He should give himself time to process before doing something stupid. But then Fury stops to chat with some random agent, and he smiles, and Clint forgets about what he should do.

He stalks right up to Fury, aware the entire mess has fallen silent, frozen waiting to see what will happen. Clint barely manages to keep from punching Fury in the face.

Instead, he adopts his most rigid posture and says, "Sir."

"Agent Barton. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Clint sees red for a moment, and he digs his nails into his palms until his head is clear enough to speak. "I would like to request permission to go after Agent Romanov."

Fury doesn't even pretend to consider it. "No."

"Sir—"

A warm hand on Clint's shoulder stops him from talking, and he turns to see Steve standing behind him, looking intimidating as hell. Stark is on the other side of Clint, and he's not touching Clint, but his support is clear nonetheless.

"Don't worry," Stark says, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "We don't need SHIELD. I have a smallish jet we can take. You know her last known location?"

A small smile tugs at the corner of Fury's lips. "Congratulations, you've passed your first team test." The smile drops off immediately. "But you will not put anymore thought into overriding SHIELD orders and mounting an unauthorized rescue. Have I made myself clear?"

Steve hesitates, but he's a soldier so eventually he caves and nods. Stark doesn't protest which is as good as agreeing for him. Clint doesn't expect them to risk their careers to help him find Natasha, and he doesn't really need their help. He can do it on his own.

"Agent Barton," Fury's voice cuts through Clint's plans to steal a jet and disable the tracker and the navigational overrides. "Agent Romanov is more than capable of handling the situation she's found herself in."

Which situation is that, Clint wants to ask, but he doesn't. He knows that if Natasha was in real trouble she'd find a way to tell him. The fact that she and Banner have both disappeared and that Ross is pitching a hissy fit instead of throwing a party means that Banner's escaped, and Clint would bet good money that Natasha's with him. He's not certain though, and that's what makes him nervous.

"Of course, sir."

Fury knows better than to touch Clint, but he does lean in closer so their conversation can't be overheard by every agent in the room. "You're doing important work here, but if I thought you were needed to extract Agent Romanov then I would send you."

"Understood, sir." Clint can trust Fury even if only because Natasha is one of SHIELD's best assets, and they wouldn't risk losing her. If she was in real trouble then Clint would be sent in after her.

* * *

Clint doesn't have a lot of time to reflect on Natasha being missing, because two days later, something happens during his shift. He's listening to _A Wrinkle in Time_ when the Tesseract makes an unfamiliar noise.

It's something like a crackle and then it glows, and Clint rips his headphones out and grabs his bow. A moment later there's a flash of bright blue light that leaves Clint temporarily blind.

When he can see again, there's a tall, insanely muscled man with long blonde hair and an actual cape in the middle of the room.

"Holy shit," Clint breathes and then he's got a tranq arrow in his bow and ready to fire.

"Hold up," Coulson says, his voice coming clear through the comm. "Dr. Foster just invited an alien to our planet. Don't shoot unless he shows that he's a threat."

"There are aliens on our planet, and you're worried about being polite?" Clint asks, keeping his voice low so he goes unnoticed.

He's not sure it would matter, because Cape Guy is too busy staring at Jane. She's staring right back. She looks exceptionally small next to him, because he's tall and really broad, and she's a small woman compared to Clint let alone Cape Guy.

"Uh, hi," Jane finally says. She tucks her hair behind her ears and holds out a hand. "I'm Dr. Foster. Jane Foster. I'm Jane."

The alien—man? Professional wrestler?—takes a step forward and takes her hand in his. Clint pulls the string of his bow back, but the guy just lifts Jane's hand up and brushes his lips over the back of her hand. Jane blushes and stutters some more.

"Are you getting this?" Clint asks, unable to believe what he's seeing.

"This is odd," Coulson agrees.

"I am Thor of Asgard," Cape Guy says. "I am the Prince of my people, and I have answered your call. What would you have of me?"

Jane gives him a very obvious once over before blushing even harder and tugging her sweater sleeves down. She rolls them up again a moment later. "Uh, I, uh—wait. Did you say Asgard? Like Norse mythology Asgard?" She seems to notice the hammer strapped to Thor's side for the first time, and she gasps. "Oh my goodness, you do! Asgard. Thor. Hammer!" She points to it and takes a step forward before taking one back. "Oh my goodness."

"I think her brain is about to break," Clint says.

"Not the only one," Coulson says.

"Okay." Jane lunges forward and grabs Thor's hand. "You're going to tell me everything. You want something first? Coffee? Cinnamon roll? Please say no, because I want to sit you down and learn everything that's inside of your brain."

Thor grins, bright and happy and not even a little bit threatening. "You are a curious creature. I like you." He lifts her off the ground and kisses her.

"What the hell," Clint mutters. A moment later, Jane wraps her legs around Thor and starts kissing back. Enthusiastically. With lots of moaning. "Can I tranq him now?"

"This is not how I thought our first encounter would go," Coulson says.

"Okay. Wow." Jane pulls back, but she keeps her arms wrapped around Thor's neck. "That was good. We should do that a lot. But science comes first." She eyes his lips and closes her eyes. "Damn me and my morals." She slides one of her hands down his chest and opens her eyes. She regards him for a moment. "Or just damn my morals."

She leans in and kisses him again. Clint rolls his eyes and eases up on his bow. He keeps the arrow nocked and ready to fire just in case.

* * *

The next few days are all about Thor. Apparently he is in fact from Asgard and is the prince of the land, and he has a hammer that can conjure lightning and that can only be lifted by him. He had responded to the call of the Tesseract, because the Tesseract is Asgardian technology and was apparently lost in some great battle thousands of years ago.

Clint doesn't really care about the mythology part. What he does care about is that apparently Thor's dad, Odin wants the Tesseract back, and he's willing to loan out his son in exchange for the cube.

And that's how the Avengers end up with a Norse god on their team.


	13. Chapter 13

Once Thor can be separated from Jane for more than an hour at a time, Thor, Clint, Rogers, and Stark go to Stark's Tower to do some "team bonding".

"So, you're an alien," Stark says once they're all in living room. There's a TV that takes up a whole wall. The wall opposite is all windows. The third wall is taken up by a bar. That's where Stark is, pouring drinks for everyone.

"Tony!" Steve hisses, looking embarrassed on behalf of Earth for Stark's behavior. Stark just shrugs and takes a sip of his scotch.

"It is fine," Thor says. "To me, you are the aliens; though, my people call you Midgardians."

"We call ourselves humans," Steve says.

Stark comes back with drinks and they all sit around the coffee table. Stark and Steve share a couch. Clint and Thor each get an armchair.

"Humans," Thor tests out the word, shrugs. "I suppose it is as good as any."

There's a moment of silence that's quickly approaching awkward when Tony says, "So, you usually kiss the first person you see when you show up on a new planet?"

Thor actually blushes at this. "No. I admit that I was stunned by the fair maiden's beauty. And then I heard her speak, and I was overcome with such an attraction to her mind that I could not contain myself, and I took her to bed."

Clint thinks he would've preferred the awkward silence.

"Wow." Stark blinks, considers. "So you're both shallow and not. Interesting. Anyone fancy teaching a Norse god how to play Mario Kart?"

Stark nudges Steve until Steve gets up to turn the Wii on and retrieve the remotes. Clint wants to know when Steve learned how to play Wii and then he realizes that he probably doesn't, because the story will involved Steve and Stark being alone in Stark Tower.

* * *

Natasha returns on a Wednesday night. She stumbles into Clint's room with Banner in tow, and Clint manages to get them onto his bed before they pass out.

He debates what to do before finally going to see if Coulson is still in his office. He isn't. Clint debates a little more before calling.

Coulson picks up on the second ring. "This better be an emergency."

"Because I call you all the time for social reasons," Clint says before he can help it. There's a short pause, because it's true, Clint doesn't call just to say hi; in fact, they don't even seek each other out at work just to say hi anymore. But now isn't the time for Clint to reflect on his deteriorating relationship with his sometimes-handler. "I have Widow and her friend, but they're not to be disturbed until tomorrow late morning."

Clint hangs up before Coulson can say something or argue. Coulson doesn't call back, and no one storms Clint's room so he figures everything's good.

* * *

Clint spends the night on the couch. When he wakes up, he checks on the two of them and finds that they've moved in their sleep. They're still fully clothed and on top of the comforter, but Banner is curled into Natasha, and she has an arm draped over him like she's protecting him. Her other hand, though, is clutching one of his, and that's certainly not protective.

Huh, Clint thinks. He lingers in the doorway for another moment before heading out to the kitchen to make breakfast. He's started on the first batch of French toast when he hears the shower turn on.

Ten minutes later, Natasha emerges from the bedroom and the shower turns back on.

"Morning," she says. She peers over Clint's shoulder to see what he's making and to give her an excuse to press against him. Clint's glad for the reassurance that she's back and that she's here with him.

A moment later she moves away. "I need to debrief. He's skittish though so I'm going to leave him here until all the bullshit is over with."

"Coulson knows you're coming," Clint says. He gives Natasha the first three pieces of French toast as well as the first skillet of eggs.

"You two are talking again?" Natasha appears to be concentrating on cutting her food, but Clint knows her better. She's studying his every reaction, waiting for him to talk to she can analyze the words and tone.

"As much as we need to."

Natasha sighs. "Clint."

He shakes his head and points to her breakfast. "You can only deal with one crisis at a time."

Her eyebrows raise. "So you admit that you two are having a crisis?"

She's been gone way too long if Clint's giving away information this easily. "We're fine. He's a senior agent, I'm a junior agent, our paths don't cross much."

"He's your handler."

"He's the Avengers' handler. Anyway, I've been busy. Don't know if you've heard, but first Captain America was thawed and then we got a Norse god staying with us so not much time for idle chitchat in the hallways."

Natasha's eyes narrow, letting Clint know that he hasn't gotten off so easily, and then she digs into breakfast. She leaves once she's done, and Clint's setting out two more plates when Banner emerges from the bedroom, wearing the same dirty clothes he'd been wearing last night.

"I've got some sweats that probably fit you," Clint says. He goes into his bedroom and digs out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and puts them on the bed before heading back out to the kitchen.

When Banner reemerges he looks just as nervous but at least he's in clean clothes. Clint motions to the table and sits down to eat.

"I'm surprised you didn't pretend to sleep until Natasha came back," Clint says as he drizzles syrup on his French toast.

Banner shrugs. "She said you'd notice that I was pretending and let it slide, but she also said I could trust you."

"Which means you trust her. Must have been one hell of a trip." Clint studies Banner for any tells.

Banner chuckles and gets some eggs on his fork. "She said to expect this if I did come out. She said you're very protective of your friends."

Friend, Clint corrects but he nods anyways.

"Good." Banner seems to relax at that which Clint thinks is strange. "She can use all the protection she can get around me."

Right, green adrenaline monster. "I'm going to wait for the full report from Natasha, but what it looks like right now is that the two of you ran for your lives, and you didn't once lose control and hurt her."

"You can't hurt the Hulk."

Clint sets his fork down and stares Bruce down. "If she wanted to, she would."

Banner laughs at that. "She said the same thing."

Clint shrugs. "Broken people fit together."

Banner nods and the rest of breakfast is passed in silence.

* * *

Stark takes a liking to Banner immediately, a surprise to no one, and invites him to live in his Tower, because _SHIELD is stupid and boring and has surveillance cameras everywhere, and Thor has a room here_. Stark doesn't point out that Thor hasn't slept anywhere except Jane's bed since arriving on Earth.

And then Clint realizes that Steve has started spending his nights at the Tower, and he isn't all that surprised when one day Steve's things go missing from his SHIELD issued room.

He's expecting the invitation when it comes. It doesn't mean he's prepared to deal with it.

"I'm in if Clint's in," Natasha says, her way of telling him that even though they're a team now, it will always be the two of them first.

He gives her hand a squeeze and goes to find Lacey.

"Stark invited me to move into his Tower."

Lacey smiles. "I know. Did you accept?" Clint gives her a look. "You know I'm not going to tell you what to do."

"It makes sense for the team to live together," Clint says. "Not that we're much of a team. We're a collection of random people who don't know each other and have a shit ton of problems. That's why we need to live together. We need to get close so we don't screw up on our first mission."

"Very sensible reason to say yes," Lacey says. "What's your reason to say no?"

They're stupid reasons. Clint's lived at SHIELD since he got recruited. He doesn't want to leave. He's comfortable here. He feels safe here. This is his home, and he's never willingly left his home. He's been kicked out or dragged out or thrown out, but he's never left.

And there's no chance of seeing Coulson if Clint moves to the Tower. Not that he sees much of Coulson these days anyways, but Clint sometimes takes the long way, winding past Coulson's office on the off chance that Coulson will see him and invite him in and things can slide back to when they were comfortable around each other. Instead of whatever's going on with them now.

"Stark listens to his music too loud."

Lacey nods like that's a perfectly acceptable reason not to move in.

"Natasha and Banner are something." Clint's not quite sure what they are, because dating sounds too normal and together just sounds weird, but there's something going on between them. "I'm not afraid of losing her, but they're together and Stark and Steve are together, and Thor and Jane are together."

Lacey's expression softens. "Are you afraid you're going to be lonely?"

Clint shrugs. "I don't need people."

Lacey doesn't call him on that blatant lie. Instead she says, "Well, if you move in I'll give you a present."

The corners of Clint's lips turn up. "Are you bribing me?"

Lacey laughs but she doesn't deny it.

* * *

Clint spends two more days thinking it over, because before he agrees. When he's unpacking his things in the room Stark's given him, he finds a computer game called the Sims. It's not his which means it must be from Lacey.

He frowns at the blue casing and decides he'll try it out later. Right now, he has to do a thorough inspection of the whole tower. Natasha's waiting for him outside his room, and they start going over weak points and possible escape routes together.

* * *

The first clue Clint gets that this is all going to work out is when Stark hands out the floor plan of the Tower. It identifies where they're allowed to go, where he'd rather they didn't go (all the floors where Stark Industries is doing work), and all the secret hideaways and exits.

Everything's labeled in a true Stark fashion. R&D is Dreams Really do Come True, his office is Hell, Pepper's office is The Mistress's Lair, and then there's the Avengers' floor. It's labeled the Island of Misfit Toys.

Clint looks over at Natasha to see her looking at him. Their first Christmas together, they'd sat in his room and watched _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_, and decided that they were going to be "independent together".

It's become a tradition for them, watching the movie sometime during the Christmas season. Clint supposes they'll have to invite the rest of the team this year. He's not entirely sure it's a bad thing.

* * *

Clint starts playing the Sims the week he moves in. His schedule hasn't changed too much, personal training in the morning then team training, lunch then target practice and some more team training. He gets back to the Tower and has some downtime before dinner, and he has even more after, and he's not comfortable enough to hang out with his teammates; plus, he needs some time where he's not with them.

So he holes up in his room and plays the Sims.

Apparently it's a game where you create people and then guide them through their lives. It appeals to the control freak inside of him, and he thinks he knows why Lacey recommended it.

The first thing he does when he loads the game is deletes all the pre-made families and homes until he's looking at a blank neighborhood. Then, he goes and creates himself and buys a plot of land.

He's fascinated by the skill bar and how he can max out attributes, and he's annoyed that he needs friends in order to get promoted at his job, but he makes enough money to pay his bills, and he's more interested in maxing out his body points so he doesn't care.

Until his social bar turns completely red, and it turns out that if an entire bar is red then his Sim is too pissy to do anything useful.

Clint has to have friends in order to function. He thinks Lacey would get a kick out of that. If he told her. Which he's not going to.

Clint makes Natasha so he can invite her over and keep his social high enough to actually get things done, but once he makes one person and gets a friend, he figures he might as well make more people so he can get promoted and reach the top of his career track.

There are eleven plots of land, well ten after he takes one. He makes a home for Natasha, a home for Banner and one for Rogers and one for Stark and one for Thor, another for Jane, Darcy, and Selvig and then he makes a large household with Fury and Coulson and Sitwell and Taylor and a couple junior agents, and Clint hopes that'll be enough people for him to get promoted all the way to the top.

He gets as far as making all the new people and meeting all of them and then he realizes that it's midnight, and he should go to bed so he can get up and train in the morning.

* * *

Clint easily becomes a Whitewater Guide, and he doesn't need any more skills to get promoted, because he obsessively works out whenever gets home from work, unless he needs to call Natasha. He does need another friend though.

He scrolls through the faces of people he's met (everyone) and debates who he's going to call over. His mouse hovers over Coulson for a moment before he goes to the phone and calls Darcy.

He's completely unsurprised when it takes only one afternoon to become friends.

He gets promoted the next day, and they tell him he needs another friend.

* * *

Clint doesn't spend as much time at SHIELD as he used to, but he heads over for his weekly appointment with Lacey, and he thinks he'll eat lunch in the mess so he can see some of the junior agents. He hasn't talked to Klein in a while, and Marshall just got back from a mission in the Middle East.

"Hello," Lacey says when Clint comes in. "How are you today?"

"My Sim is an Extreme Circuit Rider," Clint tells her. "I need more friends before I can get promoted again. Why do you need friends in order to get promoted? That doesn't make sense."

Lacey smiles and they spend the whole hour talking about Clint's virtual life. For the first time since Clint started seeing Lacey, he talks more than she does.


	14. Chapter 14

One month into the Avengers trial-period, they get their first call. An organization called AIM is smuggling stolen Stark Weapons to terrorist cells in the Middle East. Due to the presence of AIM and the fact that the weapons are Stark Weapons, the Avengers are sent out to deal with the problem.

"Advanced Idea Mechanics," Coulson tells them as they fly out to location. "They're an organization of scientists that want to use technology to throw the world into chaos."

Stark stops looking at his phone long enough to look interested.

"They require a Masters but prefer a PhD for all members," Coulson continues.

Stark whistles. "My kind of people. Well, except for the terrorism and using my weapons for evil part. Can we have a cutoff for our group too?"

"I could cut you off," Natasha says and she pulls a knife out of nowhere and grins.

Stark looks back at his phone.

Coulson sighs. "Please tell me this isn't what my life is going to be like for the foreseeable future. I'm your handler not your babysitter."

Clint smiles and goes back to inspecting his bow to make sure it's in peak fighting condition. Things have been weird between him and Coulson, and he was worried that it was going to affect the mission, but from the moment Coulson had opened his mouth and started talking, Clint's relaxed, the pre-mission nerves settling.

Now that Coulson's broken out his fondly-exasperated voice, one that Clint knows well, Clint has no doubts that Coulson's going to make a good handler for the team, and that Clint will be able to work with him. It'll be different from when it was just Clint and Coulson, and it'll even be different than Coulson, Clint, and Natasha, but they'll still be able to get the job done.

"I'm a doctor, not a bricklayer," Banner mutters and Stark laughs and claps him on the back.

"A TOS quote? You're definitely my favorite. I'm glad Natasha went and found you. How about this one, I'm a doctor, not a coal miner."

Banner smiles, hesitant, but it's there. "I'm a doctor, not an engineer."

"Ooh." Stark grins and tilts his head back, thinking. "I'm a doctor, not an escalator."

Even Clint finds himself smiling as they start exchanging Star Trek quotes. At one point, Stark notices that both Thor and Steve look perplexed, and he launches into an explanation of Star Trek that lasts them the rest of the way to Libya.

Their target is a complex about twenty miles outside of Tobruk, but they're not all going in together. Stark is going to fly in from one direction, Thor is going to fly in from another, and Rogers and Banner are going to be dropped from the quinjet. Natasha is going to take the non-superpowered way in.

Clint's going to be let off a good distance away, and he's going to spend the op keeping eyes on everything and taking out targets.

He doesn't like being removed from the action, because he won't be able to follow his teammates into the complex, won't be able to get to them in time if things go south, but he has his orders, and he'll follow them.

* * *

Clint sets up and gets the complex in his sight. The complex turns out to be a series of heavy duty tents. It looks primitive and like this will be an easy mission, but Clint's seen the reports on AIM. They're into fancy gadgets which means they might be looking at unassuming tents, but the fabric can probably electrocute or reach out and grab people or something sci-fyey. And yes, that's a technical term.

"I've got eyes," Clint says into his comm. "Team two set to deploy?"

"Team two deployed," Coulson says. "Widow en route. Give us a distraction, and team three will deploy."

Stark and Thor are on their way, Natasha's on her way as well. Now all Clint has to do is make enough of a ruckus that no one will notice Steve and Banner falling from the sky.

Clint grins and pulls out an explosive arrow. There are some days that he really loves his job.

* * *

Things get crazy fast. It turns out the tents are either bigger on the inside (Tony makes a Doctor Who reference and then gets reprimanded by Coulson because the comm. is for mission chatter only) or there are a series of tunnels underground, because there are way too many enemies to have all fit in the tents.

There are men in body armor with regular guns, men in body armor with futuristic looking guns that appear to be blowing things up and doing more damage to the enemy than to the Avengers.

"Widow, on your left," Clint says. She takes out that guy who was trying to sneak up on her while Clint takes care of the one who was going to take advantage of her distraction to shoot her.

"Uh oh," Stark says. "Does the Hulk have a comm.? Does the Hulk understand words? Because he's about to get fried."

Rogers shouts out a warning, but the Hulk shows no sign of hearing and then three of those future guns are fired at him. He gets thrown into the air and crashes down on top of one of the tents, leveling it and destroying what was inside. He hits the ground so hard that he actually bounces and then lands on the wreckage one last time for good measure.

There's a moment of tense silence and then the Hulk pushes to his feet.

"Ha!" Tony cries. "Bumbles bounce."

"Stark," Coulson warns, but there's too much relief in his voice to be reprimanding.

"There's something wrong about quoting Christmas movies in weather like this." Natasha slips into what looks like the command tent, and Clint's pissed, because now he can't keep an eye on her, but he trusts her to not get killed.

"You've seen Rudolph?" Stark asks. Clint fires off three arrows, taking out the guys who had swarmed Steve. "I didn't peg you for a holiday spirit person."

"Stark!" Coulson's recovered enough to yell. Clint grins and shoots the tires of the getaway vehicle. Thor leaps into the four wheeler and starts swinging his hammer, knocking AIM troopers in every direction.

"I've found the weapons," Natasha says. "Stark, you want to come get them?"

"My pleasure."

Iron Man zooms into the tent, and Clint shifts his focus to Steve and Thor, making sure they don't get overwhelmed by the enemy. He scans the area once in a while to make sure nothing's going to sneak up on them.

* * *

Everything is going well until Stark flies out of the tent. He has the case of weapons strapped to his back, and he's flying out to the rendezvous point when a man runs out of a different tent and fires off a harmless looking gun.

And then Stark's repulsors stop working and he starts to fall.

"Anyone else see that?" Clint asks.

The weapons slip off his back, and Clint doesn't know what's in the case, but he's guessing that if they fall from that high then there's going to be a big explosion.

Several things happen at once. Thor shouts that he's got the weapons and he takes off in that direction. Steve throws his shield to distract the troopers that want to go after Thor. The quinjet materializes so Stark can fall through the open hangar bay.

And then Coulson gets shot.

In the brief moment that the shield drops, Coulson's visible, and someone takes the shot and then Coulson's falling out the quinjet.

"Shit," Clint says, and there's nothing he can do. He's too far away to reach Coulson, too far away to be any use. "Someone catch him!"

Clint starts firing off arrows, but he's distracted, because he's watching Coulson fall, and then the Hulk is there, catching Coulson in his palm and tucking him against his chest so no one can shoot him again.

And then the Hulk bellows and starts rampaging, stepping on and crushing anything in his path.

"Guess the Hulk likes Coulson," Stark says and then he's jumping out of the quinjet, apparently having fixed whatever the problem was. Clint's already killed the guy who messed with Stark's armor, but Stark grabs the gun and tosses it towards the quinjet to study later. They definitely don't want that happening again.

"We have the weapons," Clint says, because Coulson is down and someone needs to be in control. "Take prisoners for question if you can. If not, let's level this place.

"That's all you," Natasha says. "Iron Man, give me a lift to the quinjet. Thor, take Rogers up. Hulk, get Coulson out of the way. Last tent standing, Hawkeye."

"Yes, ma'am." Clint nocks an incendiary arrow and waits for his team to clear out. Once the Hulk is a safe distance away, he lets his arrow fly. He doesn't know what Natasha found and stacked inside the tent, but it explodes as soon as his arrow hits and, the flames reach out and destroy everything in a twenty foot radius.

"Shit," Stark breathes and he sounds impressed.

Clint grins. "You're not the only one with the fun toys." He spots the Hulk crouched over Coulson's body and his smile drops off his face. "Get the jet over to the Hulk. Coulson needs medical. Come pick me up once he's onboard and stable."

* * *

Clint gets onto the jet, gives the pilot permission to get them the hell out, and goes straight to the small med bay. Banner is passed out on a table but everyone else is crowded around Coulson's bed.

Tanner, their medic, looks annoyed that there are so many people in his space, but pleased to see the support for Coulson. Natasha senses Clint coming and she moves aside so Clint can step straight up to Coulson's bed.

Coulson is lying down and his face is pale, but not pale enough for Clint to worry. His shirt has been torn off, and there's a bandage over his shoulder, but he offers Clint a weak smile when he sees him.

"Through and through. I'm going to be fine."

Clint nods and pretends that his entire body doesn't relax at the news. "Mission was a success, sir. We retrieved the weapons, Stark retrieved the tech that knocked out his suit, and we have an AIM member in lock-up."

Coulson nods. "Good. The team did good."

Clint looks around at his team. They're all dirty and blood stained, but they're alive. Natasha's starting to unwind, but Clint knows she won't completely relax until they get back to SHIELD and she can go through her post-mission routine. Banner will be out until he recovers from his transformation. Steve looks tired, but there's a brightness in his eyes that's been missing since they woke him up. Post-mission adrenaline. Clint's familiar with that one.

Thor doesn't look tired, but he does look concerned as he stares down at Coulson. And Stark can't look at Coulson for more than a second at a time. He'll look over at Coulson, his eyes inevitably drawn to the wound and then his eyes will skitter away again.

Clint's seen that look dozens of times. "It's not your fault."

Stark's head snaps up. "What?"

Coulson rolls his head so he's looking at Stark. "You're blaming yourself? I forgot this was a rookie team. I made a decision, and I don't regret it. Stop looking guilty, it doesn't look right on your face."

Stark attempts a laugh, but settles back to serious. "You risked your life for me."

Coulson nods. "You're my team."

"But you don't like me."

Coulson laughs and winces as it jostles his shoulder. "You are a pain in the ass, but that doesn't change that fact that you're my team." Coulson rolls his head to the other side. "Tanner? I'm ready to go under now."

"Yes sir." Tanner attaches a bag of clear liquid to Coulson's IV. "You all need to clear out now. Agent Coulson needs his rest."

* * *

As soon as Coulson's off the drugs, Stark invites him to move into the Tower. Clint isn't too surprised by this, because the man's already invited all the Avengers, and Clint suspects that Stark's still feeling guilty and thinks that offering Coulson a state of the art suite will make him feel better.

What shocks Clint is that Coulson says yes.

"What?" Clint asks when Natasha tells him the news.

She looks too happy for this to bode well for him. "Coulson knows that we're an unconventional team, and really we're a group of people that have been thrown together. We're not a team. Not yet. We need to come together, and he thinks that if he's at the Tower overseeing us then it'll happen faster."

Coulson can't move in. Coulson has an office at SHIELD, and Phil has an apartment and Momma Sabatini, and Phil and Coulson are going to get blurred if he moves in. Clint doesn't want to deal with that. He's done a good job separating Phil from Coulson, but he's not sure he'll be able to keep it up.

"This is a good thing," Natasha says. "You two worked well on the mission, but there's something off, and I can't place it."

"So you're going to study us?"

Natasha grins. "Exactly. You two have done a very good job of avoiding each other at SHIELD, but if you're living on the same floor, you won't be able to continuously avoid each other. This will be good. I'll be able to fix you."

"We don't need fixing," Clint says. "Like you said, the mission went fine."

"Sometimes you're an idiot," Natasha says. She pats him on the head and disappears to do whatever it is she does with her free time.

Clint goes to his room and opens the Sims.

* * *

Three days after Coulson moves in, they're all sitting around the dinner table (because Steve insists on team dinners, and Coulson had backed him) when Tony announces Mission: Be Normal. Since vanquishing evil is easy for them, they need something challenging, and he says that at least once a month they have to do something that regular people do. Go out to dinner without property damage, go an art museum without getting kicked out, take a walk through the city.

Clint is skeptical but, once again, Coulson backs the team building initiative, and they start making plans for their first attempt to be normal.

* * *

"Shopping?" Clint asks over breakfast when Stark tells them what they're going to spend the day doing.

"Yes," Tony answers. "Shopping. We have a Norse god on our team who thinks battle armor is appropriate to wear on an everyday basis and let's not even get started on Steve's 40s fashion." Steve flushes and keeps eating his eggs. "Plus, you and Natasha think that SHIELD chic is in, which it's not. And while Bruce can pull off the tweed, I'm embarrassed to be seen in public with him. So we're going shopping for modern human clothes."

Stark beams and looks out at the table. Clint wonders how he can get out of this. And then Darcy walks through the door, and she goes straight to him, draping her arms over his shoulder in a half-hug, half-you're not going anywhere hold.

"Tony called me in to play fashion consultant. Ready for a day of shopping with me?"

"Nope." Clint looks over at Coulson who is eyeing Darcy and Clint with something sharp in his eyes. When he sees Clint looking, his face smoothes out to normal. "You coming?"

Coulson points to the sling. "I've got a doctor's note."

"I could get shot," Clint says.

Darcy laughs and tousles his hair. "No way. I get to play dress up with you. There is no way you're getting out of this. You need proper bar clothes for the next time Jane and I drag you out."

"I'm no longer you're babysitter," Clint says. "That means I no longer have to go to the bar with you."

"But you want to!" Darcy gives his shoulders a squeeze and then steals a piece of toast off his plate. "So, when are we going?"

* * *

The one plus of having Darcy with them is that she talks Tony out of going to one of his fancy stores where nothing costs less than $200. Clint might be forced to go shopping, but he's not going to blow an entire year's salary on it.

They end up in a department store which might actually be worse, because they step onto the men's floor (Natasha abandons them to shop on her own, because she's perfectly capable of that thank you very much) and Steve freezes up.

He looks around at the racks and racks of clothes and then he notices the shelves lining the walls, and he takes a step backwards.

"It's going to be okay," Stark says and he wraps an arm around Steve's waist. "Let me help."

Banner and Thor trail after them, because they look equally lost. That leaves Clint and Darcy, and she drags him off towards the jeans display.

"I hate jeans," Clint says.

"You have to wear something besides your uniform and cargo pants."

"Cargo pants are comfortable and have a lot of pockets."

"Oh my goodness," Darcy wails and she starts pulling jeans off the shelves and throwing them at his head.

* * *

"Are you going to come out?" Darcy asks. "I've been waiting forever. You do know how to put a pair of pants on, right?"

Clint's staring at himself dubiously in the mirror in the dressing room. "These are way too tight."

"No they're not."

"You haven't even seen them," Clint says through the door.

"But I know you. Get your cute little ass out here."

Clint skulks out, and he tries to slouch, but there isn't enough give in the jeans to do that. At least they're black, he thinks. But they're tight and uncomfortable, and he doesn't like them.

"Wow." Darcy's eyebrows shoot up. "You really do have a cute ass. Not little though." She looks completely unfazed at the fact that she's blatantly checking him out. "Why don't you show off more often?"

Clint glares at her. "I can't move in these." And by that he means, if he tried to dodge an attack he'd probably split the seam.

"They're perfect," Darcy says. "Next pair." She makes a little shooing motion, and Clint wonders how this has become his life.

* * *

After the jeans, Darcy starts on tops. Clint tries on shirts that are like his usual t-shirts except too tight, and he's sensing a theme in Darcy's choices. She ignores his complaints, and picks him out five of those shirts in various colors.

She moves onto thermal long sleeves next. Clint really likes them, and then Darcy tries to ruin them by picking out ones with designs. They compromise. He gets a tan one, a black one, and then three ones that have designs on them. Clint wonders where he's supposed to wear all of these clothes.

They meet up for lunch and Thor recounts the his struggles to find clothing in the correct size, and he manages to make trying on clothes sound like some sort of epic battle, and Clint finds himself smiling as his sips his lemonade.

* * *

After lunch, Stark gets to drag them to his tailor, because they all need at least one suit for formal functions.

"Make it tight!" Darcy calls as the tailor hustles Clint into the private room to take his measurements.

Clint plucks one of the tailoring pins and holds it up in front of the tailor's face. "I can kill you with this," he says. "Just so we're on the same page."

The tailor nods, but he looks unfazed. Probably hardened after years of dealing with Stark. Clint sighs.

* * *

They're all tired when they get back to the Tower, and Clint spends a half hour putting all of his clothes away before playing the Sims for a bit. He gets up to being a Photo Journalist but then he needs another four friends before a promotion so he exits and goes to shower before dinner.

All seven of them eat dinner together, the Avengers and Coulson. Darcy left after shopping, because she promised to take Jane to see Finding Nemo in 3D, but she made them promise to invite her to more of their fun missions.

Dinner turns into a debriefing when Thor turns to Coulson and says, "I must recount to you the tale of our great adventure."

In between Thor's description of grappling with unfamiliar fabric and searching for worthy articles of clothing, Steve interjects with how he's pleased that there are still plaid shirts in the modern era and Banner offers a small speech on environmentally friendly fabrics and then suddenly they're all talking over each other, and it reminds Clint of the circus for a brief painful moment.

Natasha's hand on his arm brings him back to the present, and he offers her a weak smile and pokes at his dinner.

"So, the mission was successful?" Coulson is smiling as he looks out at them, and Clint notices that he's still in his suit pants and dress shirt, but he's lost his jacket and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. He's relaxed and smiling and not in his uniform, and Clint thinks that this must be what Phil is like.

Clint drops his fork, and it hits the side of the table and falls to the floor. No one notices as he ducks down to get it. Well, no one but Natasha, but she's not going to say anything about it.

"So successful," Stark says. "Steve's no longer a grandpa, Bruce's no longer going to get mistaken for a philosophy professor, and Thor's not going to be told that Halloween is still months away."

Coulson's still smiling as he turns to Clint. "And you, Barton? Mission successful?"

"Barton?" Stark asks. He looks from Coulson to Clint and back again.

"It's my name," Clint says.

"But Clint?"

Clint cuts him off with a sharp look. "Only Barney and Natasha call me Clint."

Stark turns back to Coulson, looking even more confused. "I thought you two worked together or something."

Coulson looks at Clint, clearly saying _this is your weird hang up, you answer the question_.

"Exactly," Clint says. "We work together. To people I work with, I'm Barton."

"It's all right," Steve says, putting his hand on Stark's arm. "I'll explain it to you later. The Commandoes were like this."

"But," Stark is frowning.

"You're Stark," Clint says, laying it out as simply as possible. "I'm Barton." He dumps the rest of his chicken onto Natasha's plate and goes to wash his plate.

* * *

Clint doesn't know what Steve said to Stark, but things aren't as tense as he expected after dinner. Mostly, Clint thinks it's because they don't often call each other by name, but on the few occasions that they do, Clint is always Barton.

It helps that most of the time they spend together is doing team training and when they're doing simulations and practicing working together they go by codenames.

Still, it's hard not to read into things when Clint is playing the Sims, and while he's focusing on getting his next charisma point, he loses Stark as a family friend.

* * *

It amuses Clint to invite Sim!Thor and Sim!Steve over and eat a later dinner with them. He's pretty sure he could make five dinners, and they would eat them all. It amuses him even more when he invites Sim!Natasha over and they play chess for hours.

It's probably unhealthy for him to interact with the Sims instead of his teammates, but Lacey had given him the game, and she wouldn't have done it if she didn't want him to play.

Things start to get out of hand when he's working towards getting his 9th friend. He needs a charisma point and another mechanical, and while working towards those he drops to 3 friends (after he loses Stark he loses Banner and Steve and Thor and then he loses Hill and Fury). He calls one of them for each successive day to get them back, but while he's doing that he loses Jane and then by the time he gets her back and he's up to eight friends and working on getting Stark back, Hill drops him as a friend.

It's incredibly frustrating, and he goes to the shooting range Tony designed for him, and he shoots for so long that Natasha comes to see what's wrong.

When she finally gets it out of him, she laughs for five minutes straight.


	15. Chapter 15

Banner is the one who proposes movie night, and they have the first one on a Friday night. Bruce and Tony decide on _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure_, and Thor calls Jane over, and Clint doesn't realize it's going to be weird until they're all arranging themselves in the living room and Steve and Stark are next to each other on one side of the couch, Thor is in an armchair with Jane on his lap, and Natasha is sitting in the other arm chair with Banner at her feet, resting his head against her knee.

Clint sits down on the floor away from everyone else, because he likes having his own space, and Coulson sits down on the opposite side of the couch as Stark, and Clint realizes that they're they only non-couple in the room. He tells himself it's not weird.

"Clint!" Jane exclaims once she stops giggling into Thor's shoulder for long enough to realize that there are other people here.

Stark's head snaps up immediately, and there's a wounded expression on his face, but he covers it quickly with a sneer. "You're on a first name basis with her? Does Thor have to worry about competition?"

"Of course we're on a first name basis." Jane laughs, either not recognizing the tension or ignoring it. "He had to carry me home from the bar a few times. It was rather embarrassing. And then there was the time he held my hair while I puked in an alley. Can't really be Agent Barton and Dr. Foster after that." Jane laughs again and settles herself more comfortably against Thor's side. "Are we going to watch this movie or what? Teenage, stoner Keanu Reeves is my favorite."

This is a mistake, Clint thinks. He shifts restlessly in his chair. Team movie night is really hang out together night, and it's not team oriented at all, and they're all relaxed and with their significant others and that makes them Steve and Tony not Rogers and Stark, and he's still Barton, but he's the only one, and it makes him stand out, and he needs to leave.

It's one thing to go to dinner as a team and claim it as a team building exercise, but watching a movie together? That's a friendly thing, and they don't need to be friends.

"There's plenty of space on the couch," Steve says motioning to the space between him and Coulson.

Clint knows the invitation is being extended to him, and his eyes slide up. If he puts space between him and Steve then he'll be sitting next to Coulson, not quite touching, but close enough to feel his body heat, and that's unacceptable. Everyone's clearly coupled off, and Clint and Coulson aren't a couple so they can't sit together.

"I'm fine," Clint says and he turns towards the TV screen. He can feel everyone looking at him, and he's too well-trained to fidget or turn and look at them, but he can still feel the heavy weight of their questions and their judgment and it's too much.

Clint gets to his feet, and goes straight back to his room. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and calls Darcy.

"What are you doing tonight?" he asks as soon as she picks up, no hello, no how are you doing, straight to the point.

"Uh, nothing? Jane ditched me for date night."

Date night, Clint thinks, and something sharp twists in his gut. "You want to go to the bar?"

"Is that even a question?" There's a pause. "Are you all right? You never want to go out."

"We're going out," Clint says. He grabs a shirt out of his drawer and pulls a pair of black jeans out of the one below it. "But," his voice softens. "Don't let me drink."

"Okay?"

The question hangs in the air for a moment before Clint tells her what bar to meet him at and hangs up.

He gets dressed and slips out of the Tower without any of the others noticing.

* * *

Clint's in a tight green t-shirt and slightly looser jeans, but Darcy doesn't even give him a once over when she sees him. She just gives him a hug and drags him over to the pool table.

They play a few games, and every once in a while, Clint thinks about the Tower and everyone sitting in the dim light of the movie and laughing and talking, all the couples cuddling, and he thinks of Coulson sitting alone on his end of the couch, and Clint's chest aches so much that he wants to down a shot. Or five.

He catches himself looking at the bar every once in a while, and it would be so easy to walk up and order something, but he stays where he is, because he knows he won't stop with one. He'll keep going, trying to drown out his feelings, and drinking when he's in a bad mood won't end well.

Darcy catches him eyeing some blond's martini, and he must be really bad off if he wants to drink something that shade of pink. She puts a hand on his arm and leans in so she can hear him over the noise. "You want to leave?"

Clint dredges up a smile. "What? You afraid of losing?"

He motions to their game of pool, but she gives him a look like she's going to call him on his bullshit so he pulls her towards the dance floor, where the music is too loud for him to hear anything she says and where he can just close his eyes and let himself move and forget everything.

* * *

They have Saturdays off unless there's a crisis, and Clint lets himself sleep in. And then he lazes around in his bed. Finally, he admits to himself that he's avoiding his teammates, and he goes out for a run, showers, and heads to the kitchen for lunch.

Steve, Natasha, and Coulson are at the table eating, and Clint considers running away, but he can't do that, because if he starts running then he's never going to stop, and he has to live with and work with these people. Running will only work if he quits, and he's not willing to do that. Especially not over something as stupid as a movie night.

"Good night?" Natasha asks when Clint sits down with his sandwich.

He takes in the ease in her posture, the smile that she has to consciously keep off of her face, and grins. "Not as good as yours, but yeah."

Natasha doesn't blush, but she does glare at him, and that's all the confirmation he needs.

"Where'd you go?" Steve asks.

"Bar." Clint sees Natasha's sharp look, and he sighs. "With Darcy. I wasn't stupid."

Natasha gives him a _yes, you really are, but not about that_ look. Coulson's suddenly found his sandwich fascinating.

"I didn't mean to cause a problem last night," Steve says and Clint freezes for a moment before he forces himself to keep chewing so he doesn't give anything away. "I didn't mean to make anyone uncomfortable." He looks from Clint to Coulson, his meaning obvious. "I thought that you two were comfortable enough to sit next to each other." He apparently still thinks that because then he says, "I thought you're his handler. Doesn't that mean you're close?"

"Was," Clint corrects before Coulson can speak. "He was my handler. Now he's the Avengers' handler."

Either Clint answered too quickly or too sharply, because Steve looks down at his plate, upset. "Our team broke you up?"

This conversation is taking too weird of a turn for Clint to be comfortable with. And he doesn't like that Captain Rogers, American war hero looks like a kicked puppy right now. "Naw, it happened way earlier. I recruited Natasha, and Coulson became our handler. And then Stark happened." The last part tumbles out before Clint can help it, and he knows he's given too much away, and Natasha's going to grill him later. He just hopes that Coulson missed it.

"Tony?" Steve looks confused, but Clint's not really paying attention to him anymore. He's too worried about Coulson.

"I am Barton's handler," Coulson says, his voice even, controlled. Clint picks up that it's too controlled, that he's trying to cover some sort emotion, but Steve doesn't know him well enough to pick that up. "The Stark situation required a certain skill set, and Barton wasn't needed."

Clint catches the way Coulson's eyes widen as Coulson realizes he's just screwed up, but then hurt is rising up, clawing its way through Clint's throat, claiming his vocal chords. "I wasn't needed so Agent Coulson made the call to leave me behind," Clint says.

Clint knew that certain missions require certain things, and not all agents get taken on all missions, and he'd been fine with it when Coulson made the call with Stark. It was a one person mission, and he was upset that Coulson chose to go with Natasha instead of staying with Clint, but he got over it. Mostly.

Clint stands up, dumps his sandwich on Steve's plate, because the guy can always eat more. "Wonder how long it'll take for me not to be needed here."

He walks away, ignoring Coulson's frustrated, "Barton."

* * *

Clint spends the rest of the afternoon exploring the ceiling vents on the Avengers' floor. At first he thinks about anything but the conversation he'd just had and then he realizes that he needs to think about it so he can get over it and get back to being a functioning member of the team.

Unless Coulson removes him from the team for this. Clint knows that they don't really need him. A team of six is big, and he's only human, and all he does is shoot arrows, and they could easily pull Barney in to do that so Clint's expendable.

Clint can only mope for so long. At one point he calls Barney, and he listens to Barney prattle on about everything he's done for close to an hour. And then Clint gets tired of Barney's voice and hangs up, and he goes to hover over Natasha's room and wait for her to come back so he can talk to her.

She's waiting for him.

She must hear something, because she turns her head up to the light fixture and puts her hands on her hips. "You're an idiot."

Clint curls up and feels like a dog being scolded. "I know."

"Are we really going to talk through the ceiling?"

Clint doesn't answer.

Natasha sighs. "What happened last night? You two have slept in the same bed. You've stitched each other up. Sitting next to each other on the couch shouldn't have made you run away."

Clint wonders if Natasha's purposefully playing dumb to make him admit what's going on or if she really doesn't know. He supposes it doesn't matter, because she'll make him answer either way. "It was date night."

"It was," Natasha trails off, and she looks like she's about to say something when there's a knock at her door.

Clint goes perfectly still so he doesn't give himself away, and Natasha opens her door to let Coulson in.

"I can't find Barton," he says.

"Huh." She doesn't give away Clint's position which he's grateful for. He's not ready to face Coulson yet.

"I can always find Barton."

Natasha's face softens into something that's almost pity. "You can find him when he wants you to find him."

Coulson opens his mouth, processes the information, and closes his mouth again. His shoulders slump forward with something that looks too much like defeat for Clint to feel comfortable. "I screwed up."

"Yes." Natasha folds herself into her armchair.

"I'm not even sure how." Coulson leans against the wall, right next to the door so he can escape when this gets to be too much. "Something set him off last night, and it carried into today, and I can't help him if he doesn't talk to me."

"You really don't know what set him off?" Coulson must look especially pathetic, because Natasha answers her own question. "It was the two of you and then it was the three of us and then it was you and me and now it's the Avengers and last night Steve asked if Clint wanted to sit next to you on the couch. The two of you have always had a strange Agent-Handler relationship. It's only getting stranger."

"That's the problem," Coulson says. "I don't know where we stand anymore. He's not conventional, he never has been, but we had something that worked. And now it doesn't."

A small smile curves Natasha's lips. "Ever stop to think that you're not the only one confused and unsettled by that?"

Clint's going to kill her. Once Coulson is gone, he's going to drop from the ceiling and strangle her.

"Talk to him," Natasha says. "Figure it out. You two are managing to work fine in the field, but eventually the tension between you two is going to make Bruce Hulk out."

"I can't find him," Coulson reminds her, a bite in his tone.

"He'll find you when he's ready."

Coulson leaves and Natasha shuts her door before looking back up at the ceiling. "I meant what I said. You two need to talk. What do you want from him?"

Clint thinks about the empty space on the couch next to Coulson, how easily it would've been to slip into it. A look from Coulson, the slightest curl of his finger, any kind of invitation, and Clint would've been there. The thought terrifies him.

"I want more," Clint says. He needs less.

* * *

Clint's at the SHIELD shooting range on Monday after his appointment with Lacey when Coulson shows up.

"You scheduled yourself into my day," Coulson says.

Clint tries not to tense at the sound of Coulson's voice. He lets another arrow loose. "If you were going to do something with the time, we can do this later."

"No." Coulson sounds as unenthusiastic about this conversation as Clint feels. "We need to do this. It's affecting the team."

"Yes." Clint takes another arrow and nocks it. "You're our handler, and I'm one of your agents We live on the same floor which means we interact outside of work." Clint's hand shakes as he releases the next arrow and it lands off target. "But our relationship is still handler and agent."

"Yes."

Clint feels like he still need to clarify. "We don't watch movies side by side."

"No."

There's nothing in Coulson's voice for Clint to read, and Clint doesn't look away from his target to try and read his expression. "Good. We good?"

"Yes."

Coulson leaves and Clint realizes that he hadn't looked at him once during the whole conversation.

* * *

They have another movie night and watch the sequel to Bill and Ted's. Clint sits on the floor, and Couslon sits on the couch, and no one asks any questions. If Clint doesn't relax throughout the entire movie then that's his problem.

* * *

Clint tries to keep him and Coulson from crossing paths too many times after work hours are over. He can't avoid dinner or the occasional team bonding activity, but for the rest of it, Clint just stays in his room. He listens to a lot of books on tape, though now they're audio downloads on his StarkPod, and he plays a lot of Sims.

All he needs is 11 friends and three more charisma points and he'll be at the top of his career track.

When he finally reaches it, he finds out that he's been promoted to international spy. He laughs so hard that when he goes to the kitchen for a glass of water he has tears drying on his cheeks.

* * *

Clint's not quite sure what to do now that he's reached the top of his career track. He continues to fill out the rest of his attribute points, and he stops talking to anyone but Sim!Natasha and Sim!Darcy, and he goes to work every day, but it's a good thing when real Natasha drags him out of his room and tells him that they're going to Coney Island and he should get dressed.

They take Thor on his first roller coaster, and buy Steve all the amusement park food from his youth, and they spend an entire day being something more than a team, and Clint sticks close to Natasha, because he's not sure how to handle it.

* * *

The day after Coney Island they get news that there are cyborgs in the Atlantic, and the Avengers are dispatched to deal with them.

Thor and Iron Man can fly so they're all set, and the Hulk can apparently swim so he's fine, but Natasha and Captain America get jet skis that are mounted with guns.

Clint stays in the quinjet with Coulson, their pilot, and Tanner. Clint lays, belly down on the open hanger, and he keeps his rifle trained on the scene. Stark's designed bullets that may or may not piece cyborg plating.

Clint fires off a shot just to see. It bounces harmlessly off the head. Clint frowns and fires again, this time aiming for the eye socket. It pierces and the hunk of metal short circuits and starts to sink. "Aim for the eyes if you have a gun."

"I vote not being on clean-up duty," Stark says. He dives and fires his repulsors at a cyborg. The cyborg fires its own repulsors in response.

"I wasn't aware you knew how to clean up," Natasha says as she deftly avoids being capsized by a Hulk-made wave.

"You're funny," Stark says.

"I have a deadly sense of humor." Natasha starts firing the jet ski gun at the eyes of cyborgs. Some of them hit, some of them bounce harmlessly off.

"Ha," Stark says and barely avoids getting blasted by a cyborg.

"Focus," Coulson reminds them.

Thor smacks a cyborg with his hammer, and it goes flying, but without some kind of hard surface, all he's going to be able to do is throw them around. Clint fires off another shot and looks around.

"Thor, there's a small island 400 yards from here," Clint says. "Take a cyborg there, and see if you can smash its skull."

"My pleasure." Thor scoops up a cyborg, and it tries to electrocute him which only makes Thor laugh.

"I feel like I'm playing Pokémon," Stark says. "Lightening is not very effective against fellow lightening creatures."

"How is discipline against annoying robot men?" Coulson asks.

Stark laughs and dodges another repulsor beam before disorienting the cyborg that was going to kill Steve. "You just made a nerd joke."

"I would say not very effective," Clint says.

"Not you too," Coulson says, but there's amusement in his tone.

Clint remembers that they're agent and handler, and that good agents listen to their handlers. Clint wipes the smile off his face and picks his next target.

* * *

Clint takes a repulsor beam to the arm during the cyborg incident when he was leaping out of the quinjet to help Natasha out. He'd gotten a pretty nasty burn on his arm, and an ear blistering reprimand from Coulson.

He's also got a three day medical leave. He spends the time stationary biking, because that doesn't jar his arm and playing the Sims.

He has Sim!Stark start collecting the other Avengers. He invites Steve to move in with him first and then Thor and then he has enough money to build the Avengers' Tower. By the time Bruce and Natasha and Coulson are living there, it's more like a mansion, and it's as lavishly decked out as a Sims' house can be.

Clint's the only one who isn't living there, and he spends a long time debating who he's going to have invite him, before he realizes that it's stupid and to stick to reality then it has to be Stark. Of course, if he was sticking to reality then Coulson would be the last to move in, but he ignores that.

Once the six of them are all living in the same house, Clint learns that when you live with people, they don't count as friends.

He's not sure whether to laugh, cry, or go talk to Lacey.

* * *

For their next mission in their attempt to be normal, the Avengers, Coulson, Darcy, and Jane head to Central Park to have a picnic and play Frisbee. Rogers had wanted to play baseball, but Stark pointed out that they'd end up hurting innocent bystanders, because Thor could probably whack a baseball all the way to New Jersey, and so they'd settled on Frisbee.

Clint frustrates everyone, because he can throw just as well with his right as with his left so they don't know how to cover him, and Thor and Steve make the best match up, because whenever they go up to fight for a Frisbee, they usually end up in a tangle of limbs on the ground. And then they have a wrestling match to determine who "caught" the Frisbee.

Clint had thought Coulson wouldn't like the blatant disregard of Frisbee's rules, but he didn't seem to care. He was still in his suit, but he was laughing form the sidelines, his eyes crinkling, his mouth falling open, and something twisted in Clint's stomach.

He stepped out of the game, and went for a brisk run. When he came back, his thoughts weren't anymore settled, but Steve laying out lunch.


	16. Chapter 16

Warnings: PTSD and some pretty intense repercussions, Clint has a tough chapter, Clint also denies himself bread as a punishment which might be a trigger for some people. It's at the very end so easy to skip.

* * *

Everything is going well, or at least well enough, when they sit down to dinner one night and Stark says, "We should start planning the first Avenger vacation."

Natasha rolls her eyes, but she has a small smile on her face.

Coulson looks up from his steak and says, "You can't go to Las Vegas."

"Please." Stark scoffs and waves his hand. "I'm not cliché. I was thinking somewhere cool. How about Macedonia? It's where Alexander the Great was from. We could tour the ruins, scoff at the lame heroes that came before us. There's even a fortress in Skopje we could go to. How cool is that?"

Clint had grown tense at the mention of Macedonia. When Stark mentions Skopje, his mind goes quiet, his body goes still. He has one objective. Kill. He's surrounded by the enemy. Six of them. They're unsuspecting. Unarmed.

His heart is a steady beat in his head, keeping him calm. Don't give away your position. Don't move until you're ready. His hand curls around his steak knife. Identify primary target. He looks up, his eyes connect with the man with the technology in his chest.

Clint moves.

He gets a hand wrapped around his target's neck, presses until the target coughing. They've hurt Coulson. Coulson might die. They're going to suffer. Clint's going to kill every single one of them. He's going to rip them apart with his bare hands.

His other hand, the one holding the knife, goes to deliver the killing blow. Clint can't linger. There's too many to kill. Dispatch and move on.

Someone grabs his wrist. He's been caught. He needs to fight.

Clint lets go of the other man's neck, and he drops the knife, but he twists out the enemy's grasp. As he breaks it, he brings his other hand to attack. Someone else grabs that. There are voices, people are shouting, and there are hands, and Clint can feel them all pressing around him. He's surrounded. He's trapped.

His head is yanked to the side. He's going to fail. He's going to fail Coulson. He's going to fail SHIELD.

He feels a sharp jab in his neck.

"I'm sorry, Coulson," he says.

Everything goes black.

* * *

It's too bright when Clint wakes up. That means medical. He takes inventory of his body. Nothing hurts except for his head, but that's a headache hurt not a serious injury hurt. He tries to remember the fight. He can't.

All he can remember is dinner. They were eating and talking and—oh.

Clint hadn't realized his eyes were open until he closes them. He curls into himself, glad that no one restrained him even though they probably should've.

He'd almost killed Stark. He'd almost killed one of his teammates, because he wanted to go on vacation.

Shit.

Some team player he made. Clint wonders if he's done now. Not with SHIELD, he's sure they can find some use for him. But the Avengers. Is he off the team? He wonders how long he's been out. Have they already called Barney in?

Clint's shoulders shake. He fights back the tears.

"Hey." Natasha's voice is soft and there's no judgment in it.

It's also far away. She's keeping her distance. Probably afraid of him. He can't blame her.

Footsteps.

A hand gently touches his shoulder. "Hey," she says again.

Clint covers her hand with his and stops trying to hold himself together.

* * *

Turns out Natasha broke into the room they were keeping him in. Clint has to pass a series of psych evals before he can see anyone else or even see Natasha again. He has to pass even more before he's allowed on active duty again.

Lacey comes to see him, because he's not allowed out of his small white room. Clint hates white. It's better than red, but he's going to burn out his eyes if he has to stay here too long.

Lacey sits down in the visitor's chair with her clipboard and her pen, and she doesn't say anything, she just waits.

Eventually, Clint turns to her and says, "I almost killed Tony Stark."

A smile, out of place in this room, flits across her face. "You know, a lot of people tell me that, but I think you're the only person who's actually meant it."

It's wrong and inappropriate, but Clint laughs, and suddenly the room doesn't seem so oppressive anymore.

* * *

Banner is Clint's first official visitor. Clint raises his eyebrows when he comes in and says, "Figured they'd send the one person I can't kill?"

Banner shakes his head and sits down next to Clint's bed. "I happen to know a thing or two about losing control, about snapping and becoming something that scares people."

Clint's not sure what to say to that so he's silent. Finally, too late, he says, "At least you've got an excuse for it."

"So do you." Banner looks at him, and Clint knows that Natasha's told him about Skopje. He doesn't know when she did, but he knows, and even more, he understands.

"Shit," Clint says without meaning too.

Banner gives a weak laugh. "Yeah."

* * *

After Bruce comes Natasha. She brings him a bag of marshmallows and a marshmallow gun, and she leaves the door open so he can shoot at the people passing by his room.

His gun gets confiscated. So do his marshmallows.

* * *

After a week spent in the room, he's allowed out, but he's confined to SHIELD, and his room is monitored, and he can't go anywhere without supervision.

He tries not to think about how Coulson hasn't been to visit him yet.

* * *

Week Two, Clint meets with all the Avengers and Coulson in a room that's being monitored by Fury and Lacey. Clint knows that they're on the other side of the glass, and it's hard to forget that, even when he's looking at his teammates.

Thor looks troubled, Steve looks concerned, and Stark still has lingering bruises on his neck. He can't meet Clint's eye. Clint wonders when they're going to break it to him that he's no longer on the team. Maybe he'll ask Lacey about that at their next session.

"We need to talk about Skopje," Clint says, and he's proud of the way he doesn't flinch at the word. He'd repeated it to a mirror for twenty minutes, until there were rivulets of blood trickling down his hands from how hard his nails were digging into his palms, but he can say it now.

His hands tremble and he grips the chair in front of him.

"It's fine," Stark says. "I made a mistake. It was stupid. I'm sorry. You don't have to talk about it. Obviously it wasn't a good time."

"You have nothing to apologize for." Clint desperately wants to say yes, let's not talk about it and leave, but he understands that he has to do this. It's his biggest trigger, and his team needs to know it or he'll be a danger to them. Former team, he corrects. He needs to remember that.

"There's no way you could've known," Clint says. "According to SHIELD, Skopje doesn't exist. You could hack the entire organization, and you'd never know what happened there. It was a mission. Me and Natasha and Coulson." Clint finally spares a look at Coulson, and Coulson is leaning forward slightly, interested, and something terrifying occurs to Clint. "You don't know what happened in Skopje."

Coulson slowly shakes his head.

Clint's gaze drops the edge of the table, where it's obscuring Coulson's stomach, where the scar will be. Clint looks down at his hands. He can still feel the blood on them. Still see his hands holding Coulson together, praying that this would work, that the med team would get to them in time, that they'd be able to work some sort of miracle.

Clint's hands start shaking, and it works its way up his arms until his shoulders are shaking. He can't do this. Coulson doesn't know? How did Fury never tell Coulson? How can Clint explain what happened? How can he say, I thought you were dead so I stopped caring about what happened to me? How does he even start explaining what he felt?

"Barton," Coulson voice, sharp, professional, cuts through Clint's panic. "Report."

Report. Right. Clint can do this. Debrief. He shuts his eyes, focuses on all the times he's sat across from Coulson, told him about this mission or that. "Skopje." Clint's voice trembles. He takes a breath. "Agent Coulson went down. Critical wound. Outcome unfavorable." Something rises up Clint's throat, threatening to choke him, to break him.

"Barton," Coulson's voice is softer but still firm. Coulson's here, he's alive. Clint focuses on that, keeps talking.

"Director Fury, Agent Romanov, and I went to finish the mission. We," Clint thinks about what they'd done, the slick of blood, the stench of death, way nothing could quell the panic and the rage inside of him. "We destroyed the compound. We left no one alive." It's the edited version, the seriously edited version, but when Clint opens his eyes and sees Coulson, he thinks Coulson understands.

He's not sure his teammates do, though. Or maybe he wants to prove that he doesn't deserve to be on this team. He's unstable and unpredictable, and dangerous. He might be a human, but he's done more monstrous things than even the Hulk.

"We left no one identifiable," Clint continues, his voice barely more than a whisper but it carries in the silence of the room. He keeps his eyes on Couslon, waiting for a flinch, a recoil, any sign of disgust. "Their blood mixed with yours, but it was all red. I couldn't tell the difference. I kept going. I," Clint thinks of his knife, then his hands sinking into human flesh, ripping and tearing, needing to expel whatever it was inside of him. He thinks about how he never managed to get it out, how eventually he'd just collapsed.

He wonders if that's what happened now. The ugly twisting thing will always be inside of him, waiting to pop up, attack, and it won't care who's around. Clint had killed bad people the first time. This time, he almost killed his teammate, a good man.

There are warm hands on his biceps, holding him up, leaning him against the table.

"It's okay," Coulson murmurs in his ear. His body is pressed up against Clint's, and it's warm, comforting, and Clint leans into him. "It's okay." The arms drop to wrap around him, hold him, and Clint gives in to the shaking.

* * *

Clint moves back into the Tower, and it takes a little while before Stark will be in the same room as Clint just the two of them, but Clint doesn't blame him and eventually thing get less tense.

It helps that Steve calls a meeting and says that they should have a PTSD trigger sharing session. Normally this would be the kind of thing Clint runs away from, but he understands the purpose, and it was his fault they had to have the meeting in the first place so he went.

Stark talked about Afghanistan and told them about how he didn't like water, especially when his head was submerged. He told them about Stane and how he didn't like people's hands getting too close to his reactor. He was quieter than Clint had ever heard him, and Steve held his hand the hold time, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Stark's wrist.

Steve told them about falling and ice, two things that made sense to anyone who'd read his file, and he hesitated before Stark gave his hand a squeeze and Steve admitted that sometimes loud noises sent him back to the war. He ducked his head, as if he should be embarrassed by something that hundreds of soldiers go through, but Natasha just said, "we'll be careful about 4th of July fireworks," and they moved onto Bruce.

* * *

Two months into Clint staying at the Tower again, the Avengers get a call. Clint isn't cleared to go, but he has a comm. piece, and he plugs his computer into the live feed, and he watches the battle.

It's a routine HYDRA round-up, and Clint watches as the team works together, smoothly, efficiently, like they aren't even missing someone.

As soon as they're back on the quinjet and headed back, Clint closes the feed, digs out the earpiece, and loads the Sims.

Trying to manage the craziness of a seven person household is more fun than he'd anticipated, and it keeps him occupied for a good hour and a half.

And then, one day, Sim!Clint comes home from work and the blue box pops up and tells him that he's now a Counter-Intelligence officer in the military.

Clint quits without saving and goes straight to SHIELD.

* * *

Clint doesn't say hi when he walks into Lacey's office, doesn't ask how she's doing. Before he even sits down on the couch he says, "I got too comfortable with my life, and they changed my job."

He throws himself down on the couch. "I made the Avengers Mansion and everyone moved in, and it was fine even if it was a little crazy, and did you know that when you move in with people they no longer count as friends? That officially means that I have no friends, by the way, because Natasha was the only friend I had, but now that we live with each other, doesn't count. And Barney's family, not a friend, and my life is more pathetic than I thought."

Clint pauses, takes a deep breath. "Actually, I have Darcy. I have one friend. That's good. But I was managing everyone's lives and jobs and their attributes were going up and then I got fired. Or relocated. Or whatever the hell happened."

Lacey is quiet for a moment and then, a little incredulous she says, "Are you talking about the Sims right now?"

"It's only a matter of time before real life follows." Clint knows they had good reason to bench him on this mission, but he hadn't expected them to work so well without him. Coulson must have noticed it and Fury. Steve probably noticed it too. Why keep Clint on if they don't need him?

It happened with Stark. Clint's skill set wasn't needed so Natasha and Coulson went without him.

"I'm not working with Barney again," Clint says, because he isn't. He can't. He'd rather get relocated in some foreign country to live out his life as a civilian. He loves his brother, but they make a shit team, and Clint probably won't continue to love him if they become a team.

"You want to explain that thought progression to me?" Lacey asks, patient as ever.

Clint doesn't. He wants to move. He feels like everything is tumbling down around him, and he can't manage to catch everything, he has to watch it hit the ground and shatter, and even if he gets down on his hands and knees he's not going to be able to put it back together. His knees will bleed and his palms, and he still won't be able to fix it.

He needs to go to the shooting range. He needs to do something where he's in control. He needs to turn on a simulation and shoot under pressure, find some sort of calm amidst the chaos.

* * *

Clint has dinner waiting for the Avengers when they get back from their mission. He tells himself that he made Italian, because it was easy to make and even easier to make a lot of and not because it's Coulson's favorite kind of food.

Clint has a ridiculous amount of pasta, and he makes four different kinds of sauce as well as meatballs, sausage, and vegetables, and there's two bowls of everything on the table by the time they start trudging through the door.

Natasha tells him they're going to go shower, and Clint puts the garlic bread in. By the time he's cutting it into pieces and putting it in a bowl, everyone's filing into the kitchen, half-asleep but without any major injuries.

"You can cook?" Stark asks, surprised as he sinks into his chair.

"It's pasta," Clint says. "Anyone can boil water and dump shit in it." He ignores the look he's getting from Coulson, and the matching one Natasha's giving him, and loads his plate with steamed vegetables. He adds some sausage and some pasta and digs in.

"We missed you today," Steve says, and it's textbook leader so Clint ignores it and twirls some more spaghetti around his fork.

The table falls silent as they eat, and Clint watches the team interact; Natasha gently coaxing Bruce to eat, Thor tearing through probably two pounds of pasta all on his own, Stark mechanically eating whatever's put in front of him.

He tries not to track the progress of the bread bowl, but he's too well-trained not to. It starts with Natasha and makes it all the way around the table until it's in front of Clint, within reach, and he curls his fingers tighter around his fork.

"The bread is good," Coulson says.

Clint doesn't look over or glare or anything obvious. He shrugs and says, "thanks," and goes back to his pasta. If Clint had wanted bread, then he would've put some on his plate, but he doesn't want any, and no amount of hinting from Coulson will change that.

He and Clint have been in a weird place since Clint completely fell apart on him in the SHIELD meeting room. Coulson's been checking in on him without being overbearing, being in the common areas more often when Clint is there like he knows that he's a calming presence in Clint's life.

It's messing with Clint's head. He should be able to function without Coulson around. He needs to be able to, because clearly Coulson does just fine without Clint, and any day now he's going to get the 'you're off the team' speech or the 'your skills are needed elsewhere' speech, and he needs to be able to hold himself together after that. Which means no dependence and nothing too familiar.

They're agent and handler, but Clint could be any agent and Coulson could be any handler.

"I forgot the salad," Clint says, abruptly getting to his feet. He picks up the bowl of bread, deposits it in front of Steve (and on the opposite side of the table as Clint) and goes back into the kitchen to whip up a quick salad.


	17. Chapter 17

Warnings: self-harm (Clint purposefully shoots without his arm guard, knowing that it will hurt him)

* * *

A couple nights after dinner, Clint's walking through the living room when he sees Coulson and Thor on the couch, watching Wife Swap together.

"I do not understand," Thor says. "On Midgard you can exchange your companion for another if you do not like her?"

"Ah, not quite," Coulson says, and launches into an explanation of reality TV.

Clint stands in the doorway and listens, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest as Coulson laughs and waves his hands around and explains to Thor how the show is engineered to create as much drama as possible. Clint's less successful at ignoring the way something twists inside of him at the sight of Coulson and Thor bonding over reality TV.

It's stupid and it's petty, and Clint shouldn't be jealous, but he is. He turns back around and heads down the shooting range.

He forgoes the arm guard, finds his bow that has a 70lb draw rate and gets to work.

Clint doesn't like Phil in the Tower. He's getting better at dealing with Coulson, but Phil who watches bad reality TV and laughs too loud and squinty eyed has no place here. No place in Clint's life.

His bow string snaps against his exposed forearm. It stings so he pulls back and fires again.

Clint doesn't like Phil watching Wife Swap with Thor. That's what Clint and Phil did that one time in his apartment in their early days as agent and handler. When things were less complicated. When they worked well together. When Clint was special.

Clint fires off three arrows in rapid succession and looks at his arm. It's starting to turn red, obscuring the jagged scar on his arm.

He fires again.

He's not special.

Another arrow.

Coulson doesn't need him.

Another.

The sting is shifting into a warm burn. Clint pauses, presses his fingers against it for a moment and then nocks another arrow.

* * *

It's late when Clint wanders up through the living room to get to his bedroom. His arm is now bright red, and he can feel the heat radiating from it. It's also started to ache, and he knows that tomorrow he'll have a bruise there.

His left arm is also aching from pulling back his bow string. He's going to be sore tomorrow as well. He's looking forward to it.

Coulson is still on the couch, and he smiles when he spots Clint.

"Want to join me for an episode?" Coulson motions to the arm chair. "There are clowns in this one. You should've seen Thor when the tree house episode was on. He was incredibly confused. He," Coulson pauses, his gaze zooming in on Clint's arm.

Clint has a moment to think that he should've been more careful about hiding what he'd been up to before Coulson is off the couch and grabbing Clint's wrist so he can get a good look at the arm.

Clint's skin is bright red, starting to bruise in some places already. Clint can't see the scar unless he squints.

"What the hell did you do?" Coulson demands, his grip tightening on Clint's wrist. "Why didn't you wear your armguard?"

Clint shrugs because it's better than the truth. "Didn't know where it was."

Clint shouldn't have bothered lying, because it's an obvious lie, and it only pisses Coulson off more. Then again, maybe Clint wants to see him angry.

Coulson doesn't disappoint. His eyes narrow, and his fingers are going to cut off Clint's circulation if he holds on much longer. "You know the rules. You don't shoot without your arm guard."

Clint shrugs again.

Coulson's nails dig into Clint's skin, and he leans in until he's in Clint's space, their bodies almost touching. "Do you see this?" Coulson points Clint's arm. "You're red, you're bruising. It will hurt even with an arm guard now."

Clint rips his arm back. "I can deal with a little pain, and it's none of your business what I do. I'm not your agent right now." Clint's on psych leave. He's nobody's agent. He's on his own, drifting until Lacey signs the forms so Clint can get back in the field.

Something flashes in Coulson's eyes, something almost like possession, and Clint's stomach dips, and he's off balance enough that he can't fight when Coulson shoves him back against the wall.

"You are always my agent," Coulson says, his voice low and hard in Clint's ear.

Clint shudders, wonders if Coulson will think it's fear.

They stay like that a moment, both breathing hard, Coulson's hands on Clint's shoulders. Clint thinks that this could be enough to get him through the next few weeks, and then Coulson lifts Clint's arm again, and ruins everything. "Your range access is revoked until this heals up."

He has his no nonsense, I'm you're handler voice that Clint always responds to. The one that always has Clint backing down and saying 'yes sir' and moving on.

Not tonight.

"I'll wear my arm guard and it'll be fine."

Coulson looks momentarily shocked at the insubordination before his expression hardens. "No."

Clint presses up into Coulson's space. "Yes."

Coulson pushes him back, but his hands linger, bunched in the fabric of Clint's shirt. "This is not up for debate, agent."

Coulson's hands are dragging the collar of Clint's shirt down, he's bearing down on Clint and their faces are inches from each other, but he's calling Clint agent, and Clint's mind doesn't know what to do with these two competing analyses. He wants to surge up and kiss Phil. He wants to shove Coulson off and go back to the shooting range.

"You can't stop me."

Coulson grabs Clint's arm and shoves it in front of Clint's face so he can see the damage he's done. "This isn't healthy."

Better than deluding himself, Clint thinks. Better than staring at the scar and thinking that Coulson cares about him. But no, Coulson stitched him up so he could keep shooting. Coulson doesn't want him messing up his arm so bad he can't shoot. Coulson doesn't care about Clint, he cares about Agent Barton, he cares about Hawkeye, he cares about whether or not Barton can hit his targets.

"I apologize," Clint sneers. "Forgot that my arm is the most important part of me. Or maybe, you forgot that I can shoot right handed as well as left." He rips his arm free.

"That's what this is about?" Coulson turns his eyes up towards the ceiling for a moment. "You think I'm treating you like an asset instead of an agent? You want to be Clint instead of Barton? Is that what you want?"

Coulson's thighs are brushing Clint's, and Clint can feel the heat between them searing his flesh. He can imagine grabbing Coulson's tie and yanking him forward until they're in full contact, bodies pressed against each other, lips crushed together.

Clint's started to move forward, like he's going to wrap his hand around the loose tie, like he's going to try and kiss Coulson. At the last moment, he shoves Coulson backwards, and gets enough force and enough surprise behind the movement that Coulson stumbles back.

"I don't know what I want," Clint says, and he's breathing heavy and his heart is pounding even though it hadn't taken a lot of effort to push Coulson away.

Coulson looks shocked for a moment but he recovers as he slides the knot of his tie tightly into place. "Figure it out."

Clint flees to the safety of his room.

* * *

True to his word, Coulson revokes Clint's range access as he learns when he tries to go to the shooting range first thing in the morning. Jarvis refuses him entry even though Clint tries telling the AI he'll shoot right handed or even use a gun. The AI doesn't budge.

Clint goes for a two hour run and then to his mandatory psych session.

He spends the whole time ranting about being treated like a child and how Coulson unfairly abuses his authority.

Lacey listens and takes notes, but the range door still won't open for Clint when he gets back.

He showers, ignores Natasha telling him to eat something and opens the Sims.

It's the first time he's played since his career change, and he spends an hour kissing Sim!Coulson in every room of the house until he realizes that this is pathetic. He uninstalls the game, snaps the disc, and goes to find Coulson.

* * *

Coulson's in his office. Shocker.

Clint ignores the closed door that means 'keep out, I'm busy' and walks in.

"Door was closed for a reason," Coulson says without looking up.

Coulson's changed his office since Clint was last in here, but since Clint can't remember the last time he was in here, he doesn't know why that surprises him. The couch Clint had fallen asleep on all those years ago is tucked against the far wall, behind Coulson's desk. There's a blanket over the back and a real pillow instead of throw pillows like that's where Coulson sleeps on nights he doesn't leave his office.

Visitors only have the option of a wooden chair or a lumpy arm chair. Clint supposes Coulson doesn't get a lot of visitors anymore.

_Lady Lazarus_ is framed and hanging on a wall, and Clint smiles for a moment before he notices the Captain America poster next to it and the signed Iron Man poster next to that. There's a small display case for the tattered remains of one of Bruce's pairs of pants, and Clint looks away before he sees the homage to each of the Avengers.

"You going to stand there and gawk or do you have something to say?" Coulson's voice is sharp, and there's no welcome in it. Clint wonders if maybe he should leave. If maybe this is a bad idea.

Of course it's a bad idea. He knows it's a bad idea. But Lacey and Natasha and Coulson have all asked Clint what he wants from Coulson, and he's finally thought about it. Finally admitted to himself what it is, and he's finally going to answer the question.

"We should talk somewhere else," Clint says, because when this blows up in his face, he doesn't want it to be in Coulson's office. He doesn't want Coulson to have to sit in his office every day and be reminded of how Clint is an idiot.

But Coulson doesn't move, and Clint doesn't have the patience or the will to fight so he just says, "I know what I want," and he leans forward and grabs Coulson's tie and hauls him out of his chair and kisses him over a desk full of requisition forms.

Coulson lips are warm.

He's also not kissing back.

Clint lets go of his tie and takes a hurried step back. Coulson's tie is wrinkled. His face is trying to decide whether it should be shocked or angry or something else.

He settles for angry. "If that was a ploy to get your range access—"

Coulson doesn't get any further, or maybe he does, but Clint doesn't hear him, because he runs away, leaving the door wide open in his wake.

* * *

Coulson isn't at dinner that night. Clint's pretty sure he doesn't come back to the Tower at all. He tells himself he doesn't care.

* * *

When it's dinner the next night and no one has seen Coulson at a single meal since dinner the night Clint lost his range access Steve says, "Anyone know what the crisis is?"

He gets five blank stares.

"Coulson hasn't been home," Steve says and Clint is disappointed that other people have noticed. He also wants to know since when did the Tower become home. "If he's swamped with work then something happened, but I haven't heard anything."

Clint can see Natasha in his periphery, but she doesn't look his way. She's looking at Steve and making sympathetic noises. Under the table, her foot gently kicks his ankle, letting him know that she knows something's wrong and that he's going to get interrogated later.

* * *

Clint's sitting at his desk, staring down a fifth of brandy when Natasha comes in.

"Don't be an idiot," she says, but she doesn't take the bottle out of his line of sight.

"Figured the alcohol would loosen me up, make your interrogation easier."

"Don't be an idiot," she repeats.

Clint sighs and puts the bottle in between the jeans he never has an intention of wearing. He sits back down in his chair and waits.

Natasha says nothing.

Clint looks up at her to see her looking at him, but she still says nothing.

He wonders if he can outwait her. He laughs at the thought.

"I finally figured it out," Clint says. "All your cryptic bullshit and 'you see better from a distance and this is too close'."

"I would say I'm impressed, but it took you ten years to figure out."

Clint shrugs. "Doesn't matter."

Natasha looks annoyed which means she must be really fed up with him, because that's more emotion than she usually lets herself show. "It took you ten years to figure out that you want to have sex with Coulson, and you're just going to ignore it? Haven't you done the repression thing long enough?"

"Not really my choice. He wasn't interested."

Natasha goes still. "What do you mean?"

Clint contemplates taunting her, because he finally knows something she doesn't, but he's too pissed about the whole situation to actually derive any pleasure from it. "I kissed him. He didn't respond well." Understatement, but Natasha would figure that out. "Experiment over."

"You kissed him?" Natasha sounds impressed.

Clint flips her off. "Yes. I did. And now he won't come anywhere near the Tower. I should move out."

"Stop being so melodramatic. You're not moving out."

"I'm not being melodramatic." Clint's already running through scenarios in his head. He could move back to SHIELD, but that would increase the chances of him seeing Coulson plus be embarrassing. He has plenty of money to rent an apartment. He's sure he can find something close enough to SHIELD to make going to work no problem.

Of course, he's even more convinced that his relocation slip is coming so maybe he should just go to Fury and ask where they'll be sending him so he can start looking for real estate there. Maybe working with Barney wouldn't be as bad as he thought. Certainly couldn't be worse than this.

"I'm useless," Clint says. "I'm on indefinite psych leave, I'm not allowed access to the range, there's nothing for me to do. Nothing that the team needs from me. In case you didn't notice, the team functioned fine without me, and I'd rather request reassignment then get told I'm not needed again."

Natasha's gaze is sharp and piercing, and Clint wants to escape it, but they're in his room so he has nowhere to retreat to.

"No one is kicking you off the team," Natasha finally says, "and you're doing well on your evals. You'll be back in the field soon."

"Our handler can't be in the same building as me," Clint says. And that's the thing. He can't talk to Coulson to explain this away or laugh it off as a joke. He can't try and make things right, because Coulson is doing a very good job of never crossing Clint's path. "And out of the two of us, he's more important."

Natasha is in his space in an instant, one hand gripping his chin hard enough to bruise, tilting his face to look up at her. This close, she's terrifying. There's no emotion on her face, no hint of what she's feeling, and he's confident that she could kill him before he even had time to try and defend himself if she wanted to.

"You are the one who had my back in the Ukraine," Natasha says. "I joined SHIELD to be your partner, not only because we worked well together, but because I trusted you." Her fingers soften, cupping his chin now. "You will always come first for me."

She pulls him in for a brief hug and disappears before Clint can pull himself together enough to respond.


	18. Chapter 18

Warnings: mention of a character with alcoholism, also Clint gets drunk and it's unhealthy and he gets angry and destructive

* * *

The Avengers have a press event, a team appearance at some party SHIELD is throwing in an attempt to fundraise, because it turns out fighting evil costs a lot of money, even when Tony Stark is on the team.

Clint is resolved to be on his best behavior because he wants to prove that he's ready to be cleared, he wants to actually contribute to the team since he isn't allowed on missions yet, and because he recognizes that the money for all his cool arrows have to come from somewhere.

He lets Darcy come over and fuss over him, and it's nice to have someone who's not an Avenger or a superior or a therapist to talk to.

She chatters on about Jane's latest research, how she's seen more of Thor than she ever wanted to (he's hot but off limits so seeing him naked is just an unfair tease), how she earned $50 at the bar playing pool last week, and how she's convinced that her sex life is going to be full of disappointing one night stands for the rest of her life.

She gels his hair and combs it into something that looks unnatural to Clint, but Darcy seems pleased so he assumes it must be fine.

They're on their way out when she pauses at his desk and picks up one half of the Sims disc. Clint can't believe he forgot to throw that away.

"I got angry," Clint says and he tries to shrug off the conversation.

"No kidding." Darcy puts the CD down, and she looks up at him, oddly serious. "I want you to know that I know something's wrong. I don't know the specifics, and if you don't want to talk about it, I totally respect that, but I just want you to know that I realize something's off."

Clint nods and she gives him a quick hug before leading him out to the living room to show off her hard work to the other Avengers.

* * *

Clint is in a silver suit with a black dress shirt and black tie. He didn't understand the shirt and tie combo, because the tie blends in with the suit, but Darcy assured him that he looked fine, and he trusts her.

The rest of the Avengers are in classic black suits; though, Stark is wearing an Iron Man tie. Clint heard rumors that he tried to get Steve into an America flag tie, but Steve appears to have won that fight, because he's in a plain blue tie.

He ditches the team as soon as they get to the event. Or, rather, they head over to the refreshment table, and Clint decides not to go with them.

Ten minutes into the affair, five separate people offer him champagne, and he finally goes and gets himself a Coke so he at least looks like he's drinking.

While he's at the bar, a middle aged woman with way too much cleavage on display smiles at him and puts her hand on his arm. Clint does his best not to flinch or pull back, and he offers her his best fake smile in return.

"You're one the Avengers, aren't you?" she asks, drawing him closer to her.

"Agent Barton at your service," he says.

She grins and her fingers slip down his palm. "And what kind of services are those?"

Clint the man who just got shot down by his crush is panicking. Agent Barton, who's been trained to deal with any kind of situation, gives her a little half smile and closes his hand around hers. "World's Greatest Marksman. I never miss what I aim for."

"And what are you aiming for tonight?"

Clint winks at her and takes a sip of his Coke.

* * *

Treating the night like a mission is the only way Clint can make it through. Each person he talks to is a target, and he's not Clint Barton tonight, but Agent Barton, and he's a charmer, a sweet talker, and has endless patience.

It's easier to stay in character if he avoids the other Avengers, because seeing them jolts him back into Clint, but that isn't who is he tonight. So he works his way through the room, a bit of a swagger in his step, a half glass of Coke permanently in hand and makes nice with all the rich people.

He's talking to Mrs. Feinberg, the woman in charge of the Manhattan Society for the Preservation of Jewish Culture when her face lights up, and she waves someone over. Whoever it is, is behind Clint, and he's wondering if he should leave or not, when he feels the familiar tension creeping up his spine.

He doesn't even need to turn around to realize that Coulson's approaching them, and he wonders if it's possible to make an escape before they have to have their first face to face since the Incident in front of an audience.

"Tova," Coulson says, his voice full of warmth and affection as he comes up beside Clint. He pulls Mrs. Feinburg into a hug, and he kisses the air next to her cheek. "It's been too long."

"And whose fault is that?" She gives Coulson's shoulder a light smack. "My doors are always open to you." She seems to remember that Clint's still standing there, and her smile stops him from slipping back into the crowd. "Do you know Phil? He used to spend hours in the library I volunteered out when he was a boy. I steered him in the direction of the good writers. Roth, Malamud, Kafka."

"_Portnoy's Complaint_," Clint says and Mrs. Feinberg's face lights up. "I remember him reading that once." Back when they went on missions where they could comfortably sit in silence, and Coulson could read. Back when Coulson would read to Clint over the comm.. Clint wants to know what happened to those days, how they had turned into the present, when Clint is painfully aware of how close Coulson is to him, and yet how deep the divide is between them.

"I'm glad you're passing on your knowledge to bright young minds," Mrs. Feinberg says.

Clint laughs, but it's a touch forced. He still hasn't looked over at Coulson. "Not that bright, ma'am. And not that young either. It was a pleasure to meet you."

He leaves and goes straight to the bar to get a real drink. He's about to place his order when he remembers Barney, sixteen, a hard set to his jaw as he stared down a bottle of Jack and said _this time I'll be different, I won't be like dad, I swear_. He remembers the bottle shattering against the wall once it was empty and Barney realized he didn't have anything left to drink.

"Could you just top this off?" Clint asks, handing over his glass of Coke. "It's soda."

* * *

Halfway through the night, Clint has to rescue the poor woman that made the mistake of asking Thor how he was enjoying Earth. Thor had launched into a lengthy explanation of all the reasons he loved Jane, and he was onto the "luscious curve of her lips when she is truly amused" when Clint makes his way over.

Clint gives the woman an apologetic smile and puts a hand on Thor's arm. "Hey, have you seen Stark yet? I heard he knows where the good alcohol is stashed, and I'm guessing that Earth beer has zero effect on you."

"This is true," Thor agrees, "but I do not mind the taste. Still, I will seek out Tony." He turns to the woman. "It was truly a pleasure meeting you. I hope we have occasion to talk again."

He brushes his lips over the back of her hand, and just like that she goes from looking overwhelmed to utterly charmed. Still, when Thor leaves to find Tony, she lets out a slow breath.

"He has that effect on a lot people," Clint says.

"There are a lot of large personalities on your team." As if on cue, Stark's laugh echoes through the room. The woman smiles. "How do you manage it?"

"We give each other space when we need it and make sure to eat dinner together every night."

"So you're like a family. That's a sweet story." The woman smiles again and takes a sip of her champagne. "A family of superheroes protecting the world."

"Who's who in the family?" Clint asks, deciding to play along, because he's bored and she isn't trying to molest him or drooling over Captain America.

The woman laughs and looks around. "Captain America is clearly Team Dad." She pauses, considers. "Well, maybe Team Mom." She pauses again. "You know, what? Screw it. It's the 21st century. Captain America is Team Father. Iron Man is Team Dad."

"Mm, bold," Clint says. He really hopes this doesn't mean the rest of them are kids.

"Thor is obviously the foreign exchange student. The Black Widow is the older sister who looks over for everyone. Dr. Banner is the youngest child who is looking for attention and gets it through angry outbursts."

Interesting theory, Clint thinks. Completely wrong, and Bruce would probably Hulk out at the suggestion that he Hulked out one out of choice and two in order to get attention, but interesting.

"And me?" Clint asks though he's not sure he wants to know.

"Oh honey." The woman's smile is tinged with something like pity. "You're the middle child. There's so much going on around you that you get overlooked."

Clint's smile is forced as he raises his glass in a toast. "To the family."

"To the family." She clinks their glasses and goes to talk to one of her friends.

Clint goes to find Natasha. She's in a black sheath dress and a pair of wicked red heels, and Clint admires them as he slips up behind her.

"Classy and deadly," he says.

Natasha grins and inspects the spiked heel. "What every woman looks for in her footwear."

Clint laughs and leans against the wall. "Apparently the Avengers are a family." Natasha raises a 'continue' eyebrow. "I'm the middle child, because I'm easy to forget about."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "The people here are idiots. What they'd say about me?"

"Older sister, overprotective, blah blah. You'll get a kick out of Bruce, though. Apparently he's the younger child and he Hulks out to get attention."

"Did I mention that these people are idiots?" Natasha swirls her drink. "I'm not good at this small talk thing. I feel too exposed here."

"Let's go dance," Clint says.

He takes her hand and leads her towards the dance floor even as she mutters, "Yeah, because being in the middle of the room will make me feel less exposed."

He's gotten good at ignoring her, so he just pulls her close, so they're looking over each other's shoulders and they gently sway to the music. Between the two of them, they can see every corner of the room.

"No threats," Clint says. One of his hands rests on the small of her back, the other curls around her shoulder.

"None on my side either." Natasha relaxes the smallest bit. One of her hands ruffles his hair, breaking through the hardened hair gel. "You ever thought we'd end up here? Spies forced to attend a meet and greet?"

"Not spies anymore," Clint says.

"No," Natasha agrees, and her hands tighten on him for a moment. "Guess we're not."

* * *

They're coming off the dance floor when a woman grabs Clint's arm and says, "You two make the most adorable couple."

Clint wonders if people are ever going to stop thinking that he and Natasha are together. "Oh, we're not together," he says, "We know too much about each other."

Natasha laughs and slings her arm around his waist, and they go find Bruce and make sure he's doing okay.

* * *

The next morning, as Clint is dragging himself out of bed, Jarvis pleasantly informs him that, "your range access has been returned."

Clint launches himself towards his dresser, and he gets changed in record time, before sprinting downstairs.

He straps his arm guard on, grabs a middle weight bow, and he starts to shoot, letting the familiarity of the exercise calm him.

* * *

"You're moping," Darcy says. She snatches the TV remote from him and changes the channel so they're no longer watching a History Channel special on death masks. Clint thinks it's fascinating that the face everyone associates with George Washington, the one from him crossing the Delaware or the one on the dollar bill might not actually be what he looked like.

"I'm not moping." He reaches to get the remote back, but she tosses it across the room.

They're now watching something about cupcakes. Cupcakes remind Clint of Coulson and Clit doesn't want to think about Coulson.

"We should go out," Darcy says. "We haven't been out in a while. You need to get laid. That'll snap you out of your funk."

"Did I hear that we're going out?" Stark pops his head into the living room, materializing out of nowhere. "And that Barton's going to get some?"

"I don't believe this," Clint says.

"Don't worry, every bedroom on this floor comes complete with lube and condoms in the nightstand. And Jarvis is very discreet. He won't post any pictures to Facebook. Isn't that right, Jarvis?"

"Of course, sir." The AI sounds fondly exasperated. Clint didn't even know AIs could have emotion.

"We're not going out," Clint says. What he certainly doesn't need is to get laid. He needs to watch some History Channel and then he needs to go to bed. He needs to conserve his energy so that when he wakes up tomorrow he can go back to repressing his feelings for Coulson.

"Of course we are." Darcy pokes her head up, and calls out, "Hey Steve! You want to come to the bar? It's karaoke night. Great team bonding."

"Karaoke?" Steve asks.

"No," Clint says.

"Karaoke!" Stark claps his hands excitedly. "It's singing, Cap! It'll be awesome. Let me round everyone up."

"I hate you," Clint grumbles, sinking back into the couch cushion.

"Not yet." Darcy's grinning. "But you will. Let's go get you dressed. You are going to have your pick of partners tonight."

Clint only wants one, and he doesn't think he's going to be there.

* * *

Clint's in his black jeans, the ones that are too stiff to be comfortable, but Darcy 'oohs' over them, and she smacks his ass, and really that isn't a point in their favor, but she can be very determined when she wants to be, and Clint's too tired to put up much of a fight.

She also gets him into a black shirt with silver and gold swirls on it. He doesn't complain, because it's one of his looser shirts, and he doesn't feel like he's going to burst the seams if he breathes too deeply.

He also keeps his mouth shut as she tousles his hair, making it stick out in all directions. She labels the look 'sexily disheveled' and threatens to poke his eye out with her eyeliner pencil if he doesn't sit still and cooperate.

* * *

They get to the bar, and Stark immediately goes to get drinks. Steve trails behind him to help carry them back. Clint starts looking for exits.

"Relax," Darcy says, looping her arm through Clint's. "You're here to have fun, remember?"

"No part of tonight is going to be fun."

"Not with that attitude." Darcy frowns at him and shoves him into the booth at the largest table in the place. Natasha and Bruce slide in across from them. Clint's pretty sure they're holding hands under the table. He wonders if they'll let him go home if he vomits everywhere.

* * *

Clint takes the beer Steve offers him, and he takes small sips as he looks around. The bar is fairly crowded between the fact that it's karaoke night and specialty shots are a dollar a piece for the next two hours. Clint's not in the mood for crowds. He takes another sip of his beer and then sets it aside.

"You're not going to get drunk for this?" Stark asks as he knocks back two shots. "I'm impressed."

"Some people do karaoke for the sheer pleasure of it," Jane says, giving Stark a sharp look. And then she giggles and downs her shot. "I'm not one of them." She looks over at Clint. "But you're singing Britney tonight so your call whether you want to be sober for it."

Clint's not singing Britney Spears. He still has some dignity left. Still, he takes a long pull off his beer. Jane grins like she's won.

Darcy looks at the people crowded into the booth; Jane, Thor, and Clint on one side, Bruce, Natasha, Steve, and Tony on the other, and she looks like she's trying to figure out if she'll be able to fit on the end next to Jane when Steve stands up.

"Would you like to help me pick the first song?" he asks. "I don't know much about modern music, but I think the team should do a song together."

Darcy's eyes light up, and Clint doesn't trust her grin, but she loops her arm through Steve's and hustles him over to the song list before he can intervene.

"That doesn't bode well," Tony says.

"If she picks kumbaya, I'm leaving," Bruce says.

"Shh." Tony looks around. "They might hear you."

* * *

They sing _Lean on Me_, and Steve insists that they are have their arms around each other and sway to the music. Clint's not sure whether it's better or worse than kumbaya would've been.

* * *

Clint's just starting his second bottle of beer when Coulson comes up to their table. He's in a pair of dark wash jeans, and a lightweight sweater, and it's casual and not a suit, and it's _Phil_ and definitely not Coulson, and Clint's so disoriented that when Stark and Darcy and Jane give him a push towards the stage, he doesn't think, just goes up in front of the microphone.

He's embarrassed when he recognizes _Circus_ from the first few notes, and he glares at Stark's idea of a joke, and he thinks about hopping down off the stage, but Phil is there, sitting with the group and drinking Clint's beer, and Clint's a bit of a coward, and he wants to show off a bit so he steps up close to the mic, wrapping his hands around the handle, almost pressing his lips against the top.

He pitches his voice low, husky, dirty, and he rolls his hips against the mic stand, and he smirks out at the crowd, and he performs.

His body is humming with adrenaline and satisfaction when he finally steps off the stage and heads back towards the table.

"Holy shit," Stark says, clapping Clint on the shoulder. "I didn't know you could sing."

Clint shrugs, but he's still smiling.

And then Darcy reaches out and grabs his wrist and pulls him into the argument she's having with Coulson. "Clint sang!" she tells Coulson. "So why won't you?"

Clint's good mood starts to vanish, because he recognizes the tight set of Coulson's jaw, the way his hands are quite hanging loosely at his sides, signs that he's tense. Clint had gone up there to make his teammates lay off, but he'd ended up having fun, and suddenly that fun has evaporated.

He knows that he should turn and walk away, go back to congratulations from Stark or maybe even see if he can charm a girl into taking him home, but something vicious twists in his gut, keeps him where he is, makes him want to ruin Coulson's night the way that Coulson's ruined his simply by showing up.

"Darcy, don't feel bad," Clint says, though he keeps his eyes on Coulson. "It's well known that I'm the risk taker in this relationship."

Coulson's eyes snap up to Clint's, and his jaw is clenched now, an obvious tell. "Barton—"

Clint laughs, short and sharp, cutting him off. "Barton? Hell, Phil," he draws out Coulson's name, "we're off duty, and you can't manage to call me by my name?" Clint grabs his jacket off the hook next to the booth. "I'm going to head out. Maybe that'll help you relax."

"Clint," Darcy says, but Clint shakes off her hand and storms out of the bar.

* * *

Clint gets back to his room and starts tearing off his clothes, pissed that he let Coulson get to him and even more pissed that Coulson was completely unaffected. The two of them have bounced back from all kinds of shit before, but Clint's not sure they can make it back from this. He thought they could, but he doesn't have the control to forget, to move on, to act like nothing's happened.

And of course it's his fault. It's always his fault. Clint wishes that for once this was on Coulson, but it's not. Clint wouldn't be attracted to him if the man wasn't perfect.

Clint grabs the handles of his jean drawer and yanks, tossing it across the room once it's freed from the dresser. The wood clunks on the floor but doesn't break. Clint's jeans tumble out. So does the fifth of brandy.

It's a bad idea, but Clint's record is full of bad ideas so he plucks the bottle off the floor and twists the cap, breaking the seal.

He wraps his lips around the bottle and takes a longer drink than he should. He coughs and his eyes water, but he likes the way it burns down his throat, and the second gulp goes down easier.

He chases the burn until his stomach is warm and from there the warmth travels outwards, making his legs feel light and his fingers clumsy. He sinks down into his chair and takes another pull off the bottle. In the back of his mind, a voice is telling him that he should stop and go to sleep. He drowns the voice with his next two drinks.

* * *

The change doesn't come all at once. He can feel it pushing at him, something dark, something twisted, something nasty and long buried. He tries to drown it the way he drowns his thoughts, but it doesn't work.

The feeling surges, spreads through him like a possession and suddenly he's angry, and it's like all the anger he's been repressing and ignoring for years has suddenly claimed him. His hands shake. His eyes narrow, focusing on the overturned drawer. He needs to feel something in his hands. He needs to take it apart.

He grabs his comforter and throws it off his bed, exposing the vulnerable cream sheet. He seizes it and grunts as he tears. He pulls it into strips, the fabric frayed at the edges. He pulls at the wisps of thread until the chunk of sheet dissolves in his hands.

He picks up the next strip.

* * *

Clint's surrounded by fragile wisps of thread, all that remains of his sheet when the door to his room opens.

He can see the faint glow of the arc reactor through Stark's shirt. Clint growls, and Stark doesn't move any further into the room, but he doesn't retreat either. He takes in the drawer and the strewn clothes, and the glass littering the floor (Clint doesn't remember throwing the bottle, but he must have at some point) but when he meets Clint's eyes there's no judgment.

Clint's hands are shaking again. They'd stopped while he was destroying the sheet, but now that they're unoccupied they're trembling, and he clenches his hands into fists, but fists and alcohol dredge up bad memories. Even worse, his hands continue to shake.

His body is outside of his control, and he hates this more than anything. He suspects this has been going on for a while. It's why the whole Coulson situation has left him unsettled. His body is doing things—feeling things—without his permission, and it doesn't stop even though he wants—needs—it to.

Clint looks over at Stark, and even though he's seen the reports and knows that Stark has had worse episodes, Clint still has to look away. "My father was an alcoholic. It's why I don't drink."

Stark leans against the doorframe. "My father was an alcoholic too. It's why I drink."

Silence.

Clint pulls his legs up to his chest, and he wraps his arms around them, because if he's small then he won't be seen, and if he isn't seen then he'll be safe. Only, he's not sure if this works to protect him against himself.

"You want to talk about it?" Stark finally asks.

"No."

"Okay."

Clint's feeling more level-headed now that Stark is here. It's probably the shame that's clearing his head. He looks around at the mess he's made of his room. "I need to clean up."

* * *

Clint wakes up the next morning with cotton mouth, an aching head, and the feeling that his life has spiraled even more out of control.

At least his room is clean. It's a small thing, but it keeps him from completely losing his mind the moment last night rushes back to him.

He thinks about never leaving his bed again, but he should get up and workout. Probably eat something. He starts with a shower, cold and brisk, and it helps him wake up, but once he's fully awake, he realizes how loud and bright everything is, and he reconsiders his plan to stay in bed all day and do nothing.

When he finally makes it to the kitchen, everyone is sitting around the table, and Clint has a brief moment of panic where he thinks they've been discussing him. It doesn't help that Natasha glares at him as soon as she sees him.

"Coulson's requested reassignment," she says. "He doesn't want to work with the Avengers anymore."

It's way too early for this conversation. Also, Clint is too hungover. Everyone's looking at him like he's supposed to be reacting in some way, but he's not sure what they want to see so he tries for a shrug and an offhand, "Guess team bonding wasn't a success then."

Natasha's lips press into a thin line, and she puts her hands on the table and leans forward. "He is the best handler for us." Clint wants to laugh or call her a liar, but he values his life so he stays silent. "Fix this."

Clint can't help his small laugh at that. She thinks this is his fault? She's the one who told him to make a move. He was only following her advice when he kissed Coulson, and he tried to fix it—wants to fix it—but Coulson wouldn't give him the chance. And last night? So maybe Clint was goading him, but that doesn't make this mess Clint's responsibility.

"It's not my fault he's not up for the job."

Natasha slams her palms down on the table, and Clint flinches at the sharp crack of sound. "I've invested a lot into this team. We all have, and I'm not going to watch it fall apart so fix it."

"Damn it," Clint says, rubbing his ears. "You really need to shout?"

The anger slips off Natasha's face, replaced with concern. "Are you hungover?"

Clint considers lying. He settles for flipping her off.

"Clint," she says and she sounds angry and concerned and pitying and way too many things for Clint to handle.

"I'll fucking fix it," he snarls and goes back to his room. He should've just stayed in bed.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: The story's winding down. Right now it's projected to be 22 chapters. It's crazy to think it's going to end son. Also, to those of you who were hoping for more Barney, he's in this chapter. And things finally start to get better with Clint and Coulson

* * *

At some point, Clint gets too hungry to ignore his stomach anymore so he puts on some sunglasses and slips into the ceiling ducts and travels down to the first floor. Part of him thinks he's being a coward for avoiding his teammates. The other part just doesn't care.

He gets a bacon, egg, and cheese bagel and an orange juice from some little bistro, and he eats it at the little outdoor café.

Afterwards, he walks along the water for a little less than an hour until he reaches Central Park. He finds a less crowded corner of the park and pulls out his phone and dials Barney's number.

He picks up on the third ring. "Yo, little bro."

"Hello," Clint says and it's more of a sigh then a greeting, and it's weighed down with defeat, and Clint can hear Barney straightening up on the other end.

"What happened?"

Clint closes his eyes and leans back against a sun warmed rock. "I got drunk last night. Wrecked my room." _I kissed my boss, and he thought I was prostituting myself to get into the shooting range. My closest friend is pissed at me. Coulson is leaving me. I've been knocked off-kilter, and I can't seem to get my feet back under me. I'm tired, so very, very tired._

"Shit," Barney says. "That's usually my job."

"The bottle was there, and I was alone, and I wasn't strong enough to keep myself from picking it up." Clint can feel tears prickling at the backs of his eyes. "I watched the security footage from my room. Must've blacked out, because I didn't remember everything I saw."

"You doing all right now?"

Not at all. "Had a breakfast sandwich. Now I'm sitting in Central Park and whining to my older brother."

"Best hangover cure there is," Barney says, and he doesn't press for more details about where Clint's head is at. Clint's grateful for it.

They sit in comfortable silence for almost a minute before Clint says, "Hey, I don't really want to go back yet. Will you talk to me?"

"Will I talk?" Barney laughs and it's only a little forced. "Do you even know me?"

He starts regaling Clint with stories from his most recent missions, and how he's started taking surfing lessons in his downtime, because it's fun and a great way to meet and impress chicks.

* * *

Eventually, Barney has to go, and Clint can't put off the inevitable anymore. He buys a fried dough from one of the vendors in the park, and he picks it apart on his way to SHIELD. He's still licking powdered sugar off his fingers when he scans his ID at the security station.

He takes the stairs up to Coulson's office, because there's no way he can willingly trap himself inside an elevator right now, and by taking the stairs by twos he's able to distract himself for a few minutes with the burn of his quads.

He'd thought about this conversation when walking over here, because he'd had plenty of time, and he needed a plan or he would lose his nerve at Coulson's door. He still might lose his nerve.

But in any case, Clint knows what he has to do. His pulse might quicken when he sees Coulson, and his chest might ache with the need to kiss him, and he might sometimes get jealous when Coulson is spending time with the other Avengers, but there's no reason for Clint to give into these feelings.

He can't stop himself from feeling them, but just because he wants to kiss Coulson is no reason for him to actually do it. He can accept that his body is betraying him and do his best to control the damage done by that, and he can still work with Coulson and Coulson can still work with him.

Clint takes a steadying breath before knocking on Coulson's door.

"I'm not changing my mind," Coulson says and Clint wonders if Coulson's suddenly gained the ability to see through walls or if Clint isn't the first person who has approached him about this today.

"Yes you are," Clint says opening the door.

Shock flashes across Coulson's face for a brief second, before he schools his expression. His hands tremble slightly, though, as he rearranges his paperwork. "My door was closed for a reason. I'm doing work."

"You answered the knock," Clint says. "That was an invitation." Clint doesn't sit, because he wants to show Coulson that he doesn't plan on being an interruption for long, and because Clint doesn't think he deserves to act like he has the right to come in here and sit and talk to Coulson like he used to.

"What do you want, Barton?" Coulson asks, extra emphasis on Clint's name.

Clint doesn't rise to the bait. "I've been told you've requested reassignment." Coulson doesn't respond. "Let me guess, you picked Sitwell to be your replacement?"

Coulson nods.

Clint laughs and shakes his head. "He got prickly about me using a bow on ops. He's not going to last a day with Tony."

"They'll both have to make compromises." Coulson isn't even bothering to pretend to fill out his paperwork.

"Sitwell's the best option," Clint agrees, "but he'd still be shit at the job."

Coulson's eyes narrow. "Get to your point, Barton. I don't have all day."

Clint thinks about how lost Steve had looked at the table this morning, the betrayal lurking in Tony's eyes, the fury in Natasha's. He thinks about team dinners where the seven of them joked about training or argued over which Top Model should be eliminated next.

He focuses on the team, and it makes it easier for him to say, "You can't be reassigned. The team needs you."

Coulson, of course, doesn't let him off the hook that easily. He puts his elbows on his desk and leans in. "And you?"

Clint wants to close his eyes, because it will block out the way Coulson's rolled his shirt sleeves up, it will hide the small triangle of skin at his throat from where he's undone his first button. He doesn't, because he needs to be able to function around his handler.

"When this initiative was getting started, you told me I was chosen over Barney, because I'm a team player. I'll do what's necessary, sir."

Clint holds Coulson's gaze for a moment to let Coulson know that Clint's being serious, that Clint's done being selfish and stupid, and he will do anything in his power to make sure the Avengers are the best damn team on the planet.

And then Clint turns and walks out of the office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

* * *

Clint goes down to the locker room, and he changes into workout clothes. He's wasted enough of his day. It's time to get his ass back into gear.

He goes to Gym 3 without thinking, and it's the Avengers' gym, and it hadn't occurred to him that the others would be there, but of course they're there. Where else would they be?

Steve and Thor are sparring in one ring. Tony and Natasha are sparring in another. Bruce is doing some free weights work.

Clint considers going over to a treadmill and putting headphones in and pretending that he doesn't see them, but he's made a commitment to being a better team member and that starts now.

He rolls his shoulders and goes up to Tony and Natasha's sparring ring. Natasha's just landed her third hit to Tony's side, and he looks pissed as he goes over to get a drink.

"You raise your left arm up too much when you punch with your right," Clint says. "It exposes you every time."

Tony blinks, surprised to see Clint, and then he lifts his hands up and jabs at the air with his right and sure enough, his left arm drifts up. "Well, shit," he says. "Thanks, Barton."

"Clint's fine." He goes over to join Bruce and pretends that he doesn't feel Tony staring at him or see Steve's smile out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

Coulson joins them for dinner that night. They've all sat down to ham and pineapple and green beans and potatoes when Coulson walks in and sits down like he hadn't quit sometime in the past 24 hours.

"You're back," Steve says and he's smiling as he goes to get another place setting.

"My transfer was classified," Coulson says and looks between Tony and Natasha like he can't decide which one of them had found him out.

Natasha spreads her napkin out across her lap. "It was also unnecessary."

Steve hands Coulson his plate and silverware and there's a moment of awkward silence, because no one knows what to say.

And then Thor beams and declares, "This is a cause for celebration, no?"

Clint doesn't miss the way Natasha's eyes flit over to him, and he feels a bit of resentment bubbling up, because yeah, last night had been bad, but he's better, and he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

"Definitely," Clint says as he stands up. "Since it's dinner does wine sound good? We can have something stronger after if you're still in the mood to celebrate."

He goes down to Tony's bar and comes back with two bottles of Zinfandel. Steve got the glasses while Clint was gone so he pours and then they sit down and start eating.

Clint only fills his glass halfway, and he doesn't touch it all dinner.

* * *

Clint stays for half of the after dinner party, but he's tired so he calls it an early night and leaves while Thor is composing limericks about Coulson's Many Great Deeds.

He sinks down on his bed, and it's a mistake, because now he doesn't want to get up, and he hasn't brushed his teeth or changed into sleep clothes yet.

He summons the motivation to get up, and he's pushing off the mattress when Natasha appears in the doorway to his bedroom.

Her hair is long and loose around her face, and Clint tries to remember the last time he saw it down, because he doesn't remember seeing her hair this long before.

"Clint," she says, but he shakes his head.

"I don't want to talk to you right now."

She nods, accepting, and slinks back out.

Clint goes and brushes his teeth.

* * *

The next morning he goes to SHIELD early so he can meet with Lacey before team training.

"I had a good talk with my brother yesterday," Clint says sitting down on the couch. Her eyebrows quirk up for a moment, and Clint realizes she was probably expecting him to come in and talk about Coulson. He's glad he's managed to surprise her, because he doesn't get to do it often.

"I'm glad," she says and waits for Clint to get down to what's bothering him.

"I usually don't." Clint makes a point to call Barney semi-regularly, because they're the only family they've got left, and he doesn't resent the phone calls, but he doesn't exactly look forward to them either. Barney talks about himself, and Clint doesn't really say much in return, and Clint knows it's not Barney's fault that Clint's gotten used to people reading his silences and pressing him for answers, but he does think that the conversations are usually too one-sided to be completely enjoyable.

But yesterday Clint had called, because he needed his brother, and Barney had been there for him. It's a rare occurrence, Barney being there when Clint needs him, and Clint's not sure what to do with it. It's almost easy when Barney is selfish and a decent brother at best, because then Clint can just say 'that's how he is' and force himself to accept it.

But these little flashes make Clint want more, make him hope that Barney can be better, and that only makes it hurt worse when Barney inevitably lets him down.

"It'd be easier if I didn't like him," Clint says.

"Isn't that the way it always is?"

Clint sighs and sinks down into the couch cushions.

* * *

The Avengers get called out a week after they're a team again. There are reports of humanoid creatures that are larger than humans and that have the ability to freeze whatever they touch. Thor gets a dark look on his face, and he takes off without waiting for the rest of them to assemble.

"Friends of his?" Tony guesses, armor clunking as he climbs into the jet. "Should I go provide back-up?"

Coulson frowns at the thought of sending two agents in without back-up, but his concern for Thor must win out, because he gives a curt nod. "Retreat if necessary. We'll be there as soon as possible."

* * *

When they reach Montreal, there's a bank with a gaping hole in it and several cars have been frozen to the road.

Lightening is crackling everywhere, hitting the ice giants and buildings indiscriminately. Iron Man is swooping around, firing off his repulsors and dodging the ice spears being hurtled at him.

Thor bellows and swings his hammer. It knocks one of the frost giants on its ass, and Bruce jumps out of the jet, transforming into the Hulk on the way down, and he flattens the giant.

"You have stolen my kill," Thor snarls, but the Hulk doesn't seem to care, getting up and going to find his next target.

"Yay team," Clint mutters, and he pulls out an arrow. The eyes are vulnerable enough to be pierced by a regular arrow. Good to know.

The jet moves closer to the roof of an investment firm so Natasha and Steve can jump off. Natasha hits the ground and rolls, and she's off and running towards the next rooftop. Steve starts propelling down the side of the building.

He has to dodge ice spears as he does it and eventually he gives up and leaps onto the nearest ice giant. He whacks it in the face with his shield, and the thing screeches and reels back.

Clint takes advantage of the open mouth to fire an arrow straight into it before turning his attention to Natasha. Thor is too erratic to try and give aerial support to, and the Hulk is doing just fine on his own, and Tony's actually having fun if the occasional 'whoop' is anything to go by.

Natasha, though, is just a regular human with spy training that's surrounded by three ice giants.

"Widow, find cover," Clint says, and he fires off one of his new arrows. It pierces the neck of one of the giants, and it stumbles forward, into the other two, and then the arrow head explodes and shards of ice are flying in all directions.

"Thanks," Natasha says. She comes out from behind a pastry shop and goes to help Steve with the giant he's trying to take down.

* * *

Clint nocks an arrow, debating whether Thor will kill him for taking out the last ice giant or not when Thor puts an end to the dilemma by leaping through the air and knocking the giant to the ground.

He drops his hammer onto the thing's chest, and it wheezes and writhes, trying to escape the heavy weight.

"Take this message back to Loki," Thor says, his voice echoing through the empty streets. "I have declared myself protect of this planet, and I will accept no threats against it."

Thor reclaims his hammer, and the giant staggers to his feet before disappearing in a flash of blue light.

"What the hell?" Tony asks.

"What we fought this day are known as Frost Giants. They hail from Jotunheim, the land of ice." Thor scoops up Natasha and brings her up to the jet as he talks. Tony follows with an unconscious Bruce. "My brother, Loki, has recently learned of his adoption, that he was born of Jotunhiem not Asgard, and he has not taken the news well."

Coulson rubs his forehead. "Your brother sent an alien army to Earth to kill you?"

"A small contingent of soldiers, not an army," Thor corrects, "And they could not kill me. They were a message. I left Asgard, because I did not care to participate in the fight he and my father are engaged in. I believe Loki sent the Frost Giants here to try and pull me back into the fight."

"So you think we'll be seeing more of those things?" Coulson asks.

"I hope not, but my brother does not appreciate being ignored."

"I'll let Fury know."

"Hey," Tony interrupts, looking around. "Where's Steve?"

There's a moment of panic as they all realize that he isn't on board, and Tony puts his helmet back on and jumps out of the jet.

"Shit," he curses over the comm. a moment later. "Is there enough space to land the jet? Shit. Damn it. Useless fucking gloves."

Clint grabs his rifle and looks through the scope, because Tony sounds terrified, and this is a man who has survived being tortured by terrorists and almost being killed by his mentor, and Tony isn't an easy person to ruffle.

What Clint sees makes his blood run cold. He forces himself to swallow. "Sir, we need to land the jet immediately."

Tony's kneeling beside a chunk of ice, and Clint can barely make out the red, white, and blue of Steve's outfit through the ice.

* * *

They break Steve out of the ice, and get him onto the jet, and Tony strips them both down and wraps them up in the foil blankets, and Coulson orders their pilot to get them back to SHIELD as fast as the jet can take them.

Clint and Natasha and Thor sit next to Bruce, who's still unconscious, and pretend that they don't hear Tony's frantic, desperate, "Please don't leave me. Come on, baby, warm up. Stay with me. Open your eyes. You did it once before, you can do it again."

* * *

Steve wakes up, and Tony whisks him off to Malibu for three days, and when they come back, Steve's entire body is bright red with sunburn, but they watch it heal in front of their eyes.

Tony doesn't let Steve out of his sight and only lets him out of touching distant when it's absolutely necessary.

Clint can't shake the guilt that he should've done something. He'd assumed that since Steve had gotten injected with the serum that he would be fine on his own, that he wouldn't need Clint watching his back as carefully as Natasha, but Clint had taken his eyes off of Steve, and Steve had gotten himself frozen again.

What if he hadn't woken up? What if it had taken him five years to wake up? What if they'd lost a team member, because Clint wasn't doing his job?

He wants to talk to Natasha about it, but Bruce had a rough transformation, and he needs her more than Clint does right now, and there's someone else Clint can talk to, but he's not sure if he should.

In the end, he does go to Coulson's office, because one of Coulson's duties as their handler is to help them come down from missions, is to be there to talk through things that went wrong and things that could've gone better.

The door to Coulson's office is cracked when Clint gets there so he knocks softly and slips in, and Coulson finishes filling out the form he's working on before looking up, and it's so reminiscent of their early days that Clint has to sit down, because his legs are suddenly weak.

"Agent Barton," Coulson says, putting the paper aside so that Clint can have his full attention. "Can I help you?"

"Probably." Clint's sure that Coulson could solve almost anything, and Clint's problems seem too complex for him to sort out in his own head, but outsiders like Lacey and Natasha and Coulson never seem to have an issue helping him through them.

Coulson waits a moment too long before remembering what it's like having conversations with Clint when he doesn't want to talk but needs to. "What's troubling you?"

Clint slumps in the chair, the wood digging into his back. "Steve. I should've been covering him. I should've noticed when he went down. I should've," Clint doesn't know what he should've done. Because Natasha had needed him, she'd been outnumbered, but Steve had gone down, and what Clint needs is for there to be two of him. Or have two bows. Or to be more than what he is, because there's so many people to keep track of, and he can't be looking out for all of them at the same time and—

Oh.

Clint looks up and notes the dark circles under Coulson's eyes, the way he's holding his hands under the desk so Clint can't see them (must mean they're shaking), and Clint realizes that what he's feeling right now, this sense of powerlessness, this sense of failure, and this overwhelming press of expectation, is what Coulson must feel all the time.

He's on his feet before his brain has caught up to what his body's doing and then he's dipping into Coulson's secret stash of coffee and pulling out a Rain Forest Nut cup. Keurig has stopped selling them, and he knows that Coulson has tracked down the last remaining boxes of the stuff, because it's his absolute favorite, but he hoards them for special occasions and for when he needs a pick-me-up.

Clint sets one to brewing.

"You're making me coffee?" Coulson asks like he's not following this conversation. "I thought we were talking."

"We were, but you helped me so we don't need to anymore. Talk about the mission." Clint's not good, but he's better, because he's not alone in this and next mission he and Coulson can coordinate so that they can have eyes on as many of the team as possible. Clint still feels guilty, but he doesn't feel alone, and that's all he needs right now.

"We can talk about other things if you want," Clint says as the machine spits out the last of Coulson's coffee. "The Giants played their season opener on Sunday, right?"

Coulson seems surprised that Clint knows this, but he nods. "Eli had a good first game. His brother didn't. Denver might end up regretting that they traded Tebow."

Clint hands Coulson his coffee and Coulson stops talking about Eli's stats long enough to take a sip, and he's back to comparing his completed pass percentage to last year's when he pauses and looks down at the cup. "You," he begins but Clint offers him a small smile and Coulson nods and takes another sip. "Defense was sloppy, though. A good quarterback is useless if you let up as many touchdowns as you score."

* * *

Clint comes again the next day to talk to Coulson, and this time he brings up his suggestion that next mission, Coulson keeps an eye on those Clint can't be watching and between the two of them they should be able to keep tabs on everyone and Coulson can help Clint identify the more important threats.

Coulson's pleased with the suggestion, and they run a simulation that week during training, and they realize that they need to come up with a quick language for the levels of threats so Clint knows whether to stay with the target he has or switch to whatever Coulson's seen. Coulson tells Clint to stop by tomorrow so they can talk about it.

When Clint shows up, he finds that Coulson's moved his couch back to in front of his desk, and he has a second Keurig machine set up, and this one has a tree full of hot chocolate cups.


	20. Chapter 20

A month into the new routine, Clint's lurking in the break room ceiling (he eats breakfast here when he has to come into SHIELD early for therapy) when Agent Hill and Coulson start having it out in front of the coffee machine.

"He's a valued member of my team," Coulson says, his voice tightly controlled, so tight that it's on the verge of snapping.

"We need him for an op." Hill's starting to lose some of her legendary patience.

Clint should leave. He doesn't come to the ceiling to spy on other people's conversations. Sometimes he picks up idle work gossip, but this sounds like something he shouldn't be overhearing.

"He's not a regular SHIELD agent anymore. He's a part of the Avengers. You can't take him whenever you feel like it."

They're talking about him, Clint realizes. He settles back into the ceiling, because this is a semi-public place so they shouldn't be having conversations they don't want overheard. Plus, Coulson's fighting for him, and Clint likes hearing that.

"He's still a SHIELD agent," Hill says. "That means he goes where we tell him."

"I said no," Coulson grits out and he walks out without his muffin.

Clint waits for Hill to take her coffee and leave before coming down from the ceiling.

* * *

Clint can't go up to Coulson and thank him for having Clint's back, for wanting him on the team, for a conversation that Clint wasn't supposed to hear, but he does other things instead. He goes to the bistro down the street and brings back a turkey and ham sandwich on fresh made Italian herb bread, Coulson's favorite.

He goes straight home after afternoon training, and he makes dinner, tri-colored tortellini, because Coulson's amused by colored pasta even if it doesn't taste any different, and Clint even bakes garlic knots which are a bit of a pain to make, but Coulson likes them, and Clint's feeling generous.

When he brings out the cannoli, the smile drops from Coulson's face, and he looks at Clint like he's trying to read him, like he's looking for clues that something's wrong.

"I'm not a stress baker," Clint says as he sets the tray down on the table.

"I know," Coulson says and if anything he looks even more troubled.

"These look delicious," Thor says as Clint comes back with small plates for the dessert.

Clint offers up a tight smile, and he hands Thor the plates. "I hope you enjoy."

As he's walking back to his room he hears Coulson say, "Excuse me," and then there are footsteps following his.

Clint makes it to his bedroom, and he's got the door half-closed when Coulson catches up to him, and Coulson grabs the door, keeps it from closing.

"I was closing the door, because I didn't want to talk to anyone," Clint says, tone intentionally bland. He walks into his room and sinks down into one of the arm chairs, knowing that Coulson is going to follow and that there isn't really anything he can do about it.

"I thought we were doing better," Coulson says. He leans against the doorframe, giving Clint space.

"Me too." Clint hopes his clipped tone, his obvious brush offs will convince Coulson to leave, because every time Coulson says something, every time Clint looks at him, he feels his anger swell that much more, and soon Clint's not going to be able to hold it in, and they're going to have another fight that leaves terse silences for at least a month.

As it is, the silence stretching between them right now isn't exactly comfortable. They're staring each other down, neither wanting to crack first, each thinking that the other is being irrational and should break first.

Coulson's eyes look away first, but it's to catalogue the set of Clint's jaw, the furrow in his brow, the tension in his hands even though Clint's too well-trained to have them clenched into fists.

Clint snaps. "Why don't you get it over with and ask me what I did wrong?"

Coulson's eyes flick upward like he's asking for the patience to deal with Clint. "Barton—"

"Let me save you some effort," Clint says. "I didn't do anything. The surveillance cameras in the range are intact, I shot with my arm guard, I haven't provoked Tony into doing anything reckless, and I didn't switch the coffee out for decaf. That was Heinz, by the way."

Coulson steps towards Clint. "Barton—"

Clint's not ready to be interrupted, not now that he's gotten started. It's probably best that he stops talking. And he shouldn't say anything until he's thought it through in his head, but he's pissed, and if he's quiet while he thinks then Coulson is going to talk, and Clint doesn't want that either.

"Is it really that hard for you to believe that I could do something for you, because I felt like it? Or because I thought you deserved it? Or," Clint's eyes skitter away, unable to look at Coulson for this next confession," or because I wanted to?"

Clint laughs and tilts his head up towards the ceiling. "Of course it is. I mean, I should've known after I kissed you, and you thought it was a ploy to get my range access back. You can't accept anything from me. There has to be a reason behind it. I have to have some sort of ulterior motive. Just wondering, is it just me you're like this with or everyone?"

Clint's breathing hard, and he knows that he's said too much, that he's showed his hand, and he hates that they're having this conversation in his room, because there's nowhere for him to escape to.

He looks towards the door, to figure out how to get out of here, but suddenly Coulson is in his space, standing in front of the arm chair, filling Clint's entire sight, and Clint has nowhere to go, the back of the chair on one side of him, Coulson on the other.

His first reaction is to lash out, to fight his way free, but this is Coulson, and Clint reminds himself that he isn't a threat. He can't make himself relax, and Coulson doesn't help matters by reaching out and grabbing the sides of Clint's face, holding his head between his hands.

"It wasn't a ploy?" Coulson asks and Clint has to playback everything he's just said, because he doesn't understand what Coulson is talking about and—oh. Of course that's what he decided to focus on.

Coulson's fingers press into Clint's head, and it hurts, but then Coulson is leaning in and kissing him, and Clint freezes up for a moment, not knowing what to do. And then his hands clutch at Coulson's shoulders, and he pulls Coulson down to his level, into his lap, and he kisses back, desperate, needing.

Their lips are spit slick when Coulson turns his head and breathes out a soft, "Oh shit," and his breath brushes Clint's cheek, a warm cloud of air that then dissipates into the room.

Clint's hand drop to Coulson's waist, pulling him closer, holding him down, because he's not going to let go now that he's gotten him. Now that Coulson has kissed back. Now that Clint knows he's not the only one who's been feeling this pull between them. He's not alone anymore, Coulson's in this as deep as he is, and Clint should've known, because Coulson has been there with Clint since the beginning, been there to keep Clint from drowning too deep in himself.

Coulson's forehead rests against Clint's, and his thumbs sweep across Clint's cheekbones. "I don't know what happens now," Coulson says, and he sounds lost and broken and like his entire world has been flipped upside down.

For once, Clint knows what happens now, and he captures Coulson's lips in another kiss, this one less frantic than the last.

* * *

"We have to talk about this," Clint says, the second time Coulson tries to climb off of him. The first time, Clint hadn't been ready to let him go, and he'd wrapped a hand around the back of Coulson's neck and pulled him in for another kiss.

Coulson's lips are kiss swollen, and he flushes and brings his hands up to fix a tie that he isn't wearing. "I wasn't lying, earlier. I don't know what happens now."

His thighs are warm and pressing against Clint's, and Clint tugs on Coulson's belt loops, pulling him down to settle down on Clint's lap.

"I can't," Clint says, "We can't pretend this didn't happen. Things have changed."

Coulson's hands smooth down Clint's chest. "Have they?" He laughs lightly at the look on Clint's face. "The kissing is new, but this?" He gestures between them. "I think this has been going on for a while."

Natasha certainly had thought so, and Clint had thought so, but he'd thought it was only one-sided. "Really?"

"You didn't notice?" Coulson asks. "You've always been special."

Clint smiles, and he tries to distract Coulson with a shrug. "I've been told I see better from a distance."

Coulson laughs and leans in to kiss Clint again.

* * *

Coulson's already at the breakfast table when Clint gets there. Coulson had left last night after they'd established that they were going to see where this took them. They'd never been a conventional handler-agent pair and trying to ignore the way they both wanted more hadn't exactly worked out well so they were going to try embracing it.

Clint pours himself a bowl of cereal and snags a banana off the banana tree and sits down next to Bruce. He offers up a gruff, "Good morning," before taking a long sip of his coffee.

"Not a good morning," Tony says as he goes to refill his coffee. "Never a good morning."

"I told you not to stay up all night inventing," Steve scolds, but he's smiling as he plants a kiss on Tony's brow.

Clint looks over at Coulson, wondering if he's into PDA. He's relieved and not really that surprised when Coulson gives a minute shake of his head. They're both SHIELD agents. Discretion has been drilled into them.

"Clint, can you get me the grape juice?" Natasha asks, dropping into the last empty seat at the table.

"I can do it," Thor offers but Clint's already up.

Clint grabs the juice and two glasses, and when he puts down in front of she leans in says, "No make-up sex? That's how I thought last night would've been resolved."

Clint contemplates spilling grape juice on Natasha's shirt, but the momentary satisfaction wouldn't be worth her beating the shit out of him at training today so Clint offers up a shrug that he knows will irritate her and pours himself a glass of juice.

"But it is resolved," Natasha says as Clint settles back into his chair.

"Is Natasha butting into other people's business again?" Coulson asks, reaching for the Science Times that Bruce has set down.

"She can't help her inquisitive nature," Clint says and Natasha scowls at them both before swiping the sausage off of Bruce's plate.

Coulson offers Clint a warm smile, and Clint feels something settle under his skin, and he digs into his breakfast with the urge to laugh welling up inside of him.

* * *

After morning training, Bruce and Tony head back to the Tower to bury themselves in the labs for probably an unhealthy amount of time so Clint doesn't feel bad about ditching the rest of his teammates in the mess. He's there long enough to grab a chicken caesar salad wrap and a grilled chicken salad, and then he's headed up to Coulson's office.

"No café sandwich today?" Coulson asks, teasing.

"Too far a walk." Clint drops the sandwich on Coulson's desk, but he's careful not to mess up the requisition forms Coulson's thumbing through.

Coulson immediately watches as Clint sinks down into the couch, and Clint doesn't even bother trying to hide the fact that he's favoring his left side or that his right ankle can't support his full weight.

"Natasha wasn't happy that we ganged up on her this morning," Clint explains as he takes the lid off his salad. "I'll be fine. No permanent damage."

"Couldn't have been that unhappy then." Coulson reaches into his desk and pulls out two single serve bags of pretzels, and he tosses one over to Clint.

* * *

That night, Stark pulls up the original _Teen Wolf_, the one with Michael J. Fox, and they sit around the living room with popcorn and raisinets and beer and laugh at the how ridiculous the movie is.

Clint sits next to Coulson on the couch, and they don't cuddle like Tony and Steve, and they aren't in each other's laps like Jane and Thor, but Clint can feel the warm press of Coulson's thigh against his and that's all he needs.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Clint gets bored, because he personally thinks the movie's kind of stupid so he starts throwing unpopped popcorn kernels at unsuspecting people. His first toss nails Thor in the back of the head, but he has too much hair to feel it. Clint's next kernel hits the top of Jane's ear.

She rubs at her ear but doesn't realize that she's under attack, because she doesn't turn her attention away from the screen. Clint gets bolder, and he lines up a shot, and the kernel is about to land in Stark's beer when Steve's hand whips out and catches it.

"You have the attention span of a three year old," Steve says and he flicks the kernel back.

Clint bats it away. "I'm a professional sniper. I can sit still and focused on a target for hours at a time."

"So focus on the movie," Tony says. "There are two chicks whipped cream wrestling on the floor."

Clint rolls his eyes, but he slouches and tries to keep himself occupied by figuring out how many weapons Natasha has on her right now.

"Stop staring," Natasha says, her back to him, her eyes still on the movie. "It's creepy, and I already have a significant other."

Clint sighs and pushes himself to his feet. "I'm going to go take a walk."

"Thank goodness," Tony mutters as Clint heads down to ground level.

Clint takes the stairs so when he reaches the lobby of the building, Coulson, who took the elevator, is waiting for him.

"You can stay and watch the movie," Clint says. "It just wasn't my thing."

"You're restless," Coulson says walking towards the exit. "Didn't do enough today? Sitting next to each other on the couch was too much?"

"No, not too much." The only reason Clint had managed to stay still as long as he had was because Coulson was sitting there next to him, and Clint didn't want to give that up. But the movie wasn't enough to hold his interest, and he's got all this energy humming under his skin, and he's not entirely sure why. He'd had a good workout today, and nothing's bothering him, so he shouldn't be keyed up. And yet he is.

"Good." Coulson smiles and leans in so their shoulders are brushing as they walk down the street.

They pass under a street light and turn around a corner, passing the bistro where Tony likes to buy his bagels. Well, where he likes to send Steve to get him bagels. The lights are off and the metal cage has been drawn down the front to prevent late night burglaries.

"It's around the corner from a tower full of superheroes, and the owners still don't feel safe," Clint says. "Sad."

"Smart," Coulson counters. "You six weren't brought together to prevent petty theft. There are much graver threats that we need you for."

"Steve wants to start Community Service Saturdays," Clint says. "Half the team goes to assist the NYPD and the other goes and does community volunteering."

"When'd he decide this?" Coulson asks, looking completely unsurprised by the fact that Steve's either bored or wants to give back to the community or perhaps both. Clint hadn't been too surprised either. Mostly, because he's starting to get antsy as well.

They're on call for saving the world but, thankfully, the world doesn't need to be saved all too often. There's only so much training they can fill their days with, and Clint needs something else. He's not too excited about working with law enforcement, too many bad memories, but he might be able to get behind reading to kids at the local library or something.

"Two nights ago he was saying that we need a schedule, because Tony and Bruce will be less likely to burrow into the labs if there are places they're expected to be at certain times. Only, there isn't any place we're expected to be so he started looking for places. Steve wants to become a volunteer firefighter."

"Of course he does." Coulson shakes his head and as they wait for the walk sign to appear so they can cross the street, he slips his fingers through Clint's. "And you? You eager to go for a ride in a fire truck?"

"I'm not as indestructible as Steve. He thinks that if he's on the squad then he'll be able to go places the other firefighters can't." The humans, Clint thinks.

Coulson's hand squeezes Clint's like he knows the direction Clint's thoughts are headed in. "So I should start looking for volunteer opportunities for my elite group of superheroes?"

Clint laughs because it sounds ridiculous, but he knows that it's something Steve feels passionately about, and there's not a single one of them on the team that doesn't have red in their ledger and this might be a good way to erase some of it. Plus, they could use some good press for once instead of the usual 'Avengers have wrecked yet more city land'.

"Can't hurt, right?" Clint's thumb brushes over the back of Coulson's hand. "I bet you'd fit right in a local elementary school, sitting in one of those tiny chairs, reading to them from Dr. Seuss."

"I prefer the pigeon books," Coulson says and he nudges Clint's shoulder so they take a left at the corner.

Clint laughs, because of course Coulson has favorite children's books. Clint tries to remember what books he read growing up, but his childhood memories are intentionally hazy. He's spent too long trying to forget, trying to dull the sharper edges of his past to be able to remember small details like that.

He remembers that he always struggled to read, that he never read much to himself mostly looked at pictures, and he remembers the rare nights or mornings that his mother would read to him while he was lying in bed, but he can't remember what she read to him, just the way her voice wavered, always on the verge of tears.

"Hey," Coulson's shoulder bumps Clint's, and Clint realizes that the smile's dropped off his face. "Where'd you go?"

"Doesn't matter." Clint puts some space between them, but he doesn't let go of Coulson's hand. "I'm back now."

"Okay." Coulson doesn't push which Clint is grateful for, and they walk in silence for another two blocks before heading up the street. They pass the Thai place that Coulson has a soft spot for, and Coulson points to it with their joined hands. "Come up for lunch again tomorrow? I'll order Thai."

Take-out Thai is definitely not on Clint's diet. "Only order for two," he says. "I'm only going to have a little." Because they're serving chef salad tomorrow, and that fills him up.

"I'll order for three," Coulson says. "That way I have leftovers."

"Does that mean I shouldn't cook dinner tomorrow?" Clint asks.

"You definitely should. While reheated take out is one of my staples, I will never turn down ho—fresh made food."

Clint smiles. "It's okay. You can call it homemade." He leans in and presses a brief kiss to Coulson's lips. "I've been home for a long time now."

Coulson nods, and he can't keep the bright smile off his face as they finish their walk.

* * *

Their lunch gets interrupted before it even gets started. Clint's cutting his hardboiled egg up into smaller pieces as Coulson goes to pay for the take out, and when he comes up to the office, he has Fury and Hill with him.

Clint raises his eyebrows and fights the panic building in his chest, because he remembers the fight that Coulson and Hill had had, and he's worried that she hasn't let it go. And that she's brought Fury in to side with her.

"Guess it's good you ordered for three," Clint says and drizzles a bit of low fat Italian dressing on his salad.

"Hmm," Coulson says and he puts the plastic bag straight into the mini-fridge and reaches his hand out for Clint's salad. "Meeting first. Lunch after."

"Meeting?" The knot of dread in Clint's stomach pulls tighter. That definitely sounds ominous. "Here?"

Hill shuts Coulson's door answering that question. Clint gets up off the couch, because Hill and Fury are standing side by side which means they're getting ready to launch a full attack, and Clint doesn't want to be at even more of a disadvantage by being seated.

"Marshall's been killed," Fury says, and Clint's glad he hadn't made it to the eating stage of lunch, because his stomach twists and rolls at the news. He'd been on a lot of missions with Marshall over the years. He still remembers their first, the one where Clint was posing as a Sylvia Plath scholar. And now Marshall's dead?

"Why?" Clint asks. It's a safer question than how. SHIELD agents on average don't get pleasant deaths, and Marshall's an explosives expert which means there's a higher chance he had a particularly messy death.

"He was deep undercover," Hill says. "Running weapons in the Ukraine. Old Soviet issue stuff. He was trying to get closer to the man behind the operation. He got too close."

Clint kind of wishes he was still sitting down. He's been working in the same building as Marshall for over a decade. He wasn't a friend, but there was a certain closeness that came from working alongside someone for so long.

It takes a little longer for the details to sink in and then Clint realizes why they've come to him. Ukraine. They want to use Bohdan. Only,

"Bohdan has drug connections. He's not involved in weapons dealing."

Fury smiles, a frightening glint of teeth. "He's been busy the past few years. He's into a little bit of everything."

Clint's not sure how to react to the news that they've kept one of his identities alive and evolving without letting him know. He wonders who's been Bohdan while Clint's been himself and a series of other identities.

"He was Marshall's supplier," Hill says. "He's going to be paying visit to the Ukraine to figure out what happened to his runner."

Which means Clint is going to be paying a visit to the Ukraine. He carefully doesn't look at Coulson, because then he'll start thinking about this from Clint's perspective and not Agent Barton's. It's Agent Barton's job to say yes and pack a bag and go wherever he's told. It's Clint that wants to be selfish and stay here with Coulson, because this thing between them is so new, and Clint doesn't want to risk killing it by going away for an extended period of time.

"When do I leave?" Clint asks.

Hill smiles, satisfied, but Clint can see Coulson take a step forward. "Wait a minute," he begins.

"It's fine," Clint tells him. "I'm a SHIELD agent first, Avenger second, and right now SHIELD needs Agent Barton more than the world needs Hawkeye. Things have been quiet. You can survive with a five person squad."

"Things being quiet means there's a higher chance that there's going to be an attack soon," Coulson says.

"We're sending Agent Barton," Fury says. "How's your Ukrainian?"

"It'll need a brush-up."

"You need a day or can you do it on the plane trip over?"

"He'll also need a handler," Coulson says. "I'll go with him."

"No," Clint says and he manages to shock all three people in the room which he's actually kind of proud of since they're all senior SHIELD agents. Clint forces himself to look at Coulson as he explains. "The Avengers will be able to function without me. They'll be in much more trouble if they're missing a member and their handler. They need you."

"And you don't?"

Clint's back is to Fury and Hill so he risks mouthing, _always_, but what he says is, "From the sounds of it, I'm not going to have much contact with my handler. I'll take Sitwell. If I get myself into the kind of trouble Marshall got himself into then it won't matter who my handler is." Because I'll be dead too quick for anyone to do anything, Clint thinks but doesn't say.

Coulson presses his lips into a displeased line, but he nods, and Clint allows himself for breathe easier. Because Clint has a fair point, and Agent Coulson would see that, but Phil would try to argue. Clint wonders if Coulson realizes that they just passed the first major test of their relationship.

"If that's settled?" Fury asks. He glances at everyone in the room and nods. "Lunchtime. Did I see that you ordered Thai?"

"Yes sir," Coulson says, the corner of his mouth twitching with the repressed desire to throw Fury out of his office.

"I'll eat with Rosetta," Clint says and he grabs his salad out of the fridge and heads down to the computer lab to load up the Ukrainian version of Rosetta Stone.

* * *

Clint doesn't get back to the tower until almost eleven that night. He'd spent lunch and another two hours on Rosetta Stone and then he'd had to sit through Niman's debrief of Marshall's op and then Sitwell had come in to get Clint up to date on what Clint's role was going to be and then Clint had to go down to wardrobe and tech and by the time he gets back to the tower, he has a bag full of clothes and fun toys.

Coulson's waiting up for him, and a Jersey Shore rerun is on, but the moment Clint walks through the door, Coulson turns his attention away from the TV.

"You look exhausted," Coulson says.

"But I'm ready," Clint says and he lets Coulson pull him down onto the couch. "Mostly. By the time I land, I'll be ready."

Clint's tired. He wants nothing more than to fall asleep right now, his head on Coulson's shoulders, Coulson's arms wrapped tight around him, but Clint can't do that, because then he won't want to leave tomorrow morning.

He'll also wake up with a sore neck or back or sore something from sleeping on the couch, and Clint has enough uncomfortable nights ahead of him. He doesn't want to start now.

Coulson's hand runs through Clint's hair, the soothing press of his fingers distracting Clint from his resolve to move to his bed before he falls asleep.

"I don't want you to go," Coulson admits. He pulls his hands out of Clint's hair, and strokes his thumbs across Clint's temples. "I know you need to, and I'm not going to stop you, because I'm a professional, but I'm going to worry while you're gone."

"That's new for you?" Clint can't help but tease.

It makes Coulson smile and he leans in for a kiss. "No. I always worry. This is a messy situation."

Clint knows that, because he's gotten the full background on the case. He's walking into a situation that's already killed one SHIELD agent and if Clint's not careful than it's going to kill a second.

"We could send the Avengers in," Coulson says.

Clint laughs and slips his hands under Coulson's shirt. "I've been told that this mission requires a delicate touch. There's nothing delicate about our team." He presses his palms against Coulson's chest. "I've been trained well. I'm going to be fine."

"You had Natasha last time," Coulson points out. "They're sending you in alone."

"Then I better succeed or she'll never let me hear the end of it." Clint leans down and kisses Coulson before he can say anything else. Clint's been struggling with these doubts all day, and he's not sure he's going to make it through a second round of them all. Because he is worried. It took him and Natasha to get Clint out alive last time, and it's been a long time since he's been on a solo mission. He's gotten used to having a team to back him up, and now he's going in without the Avengers, without Natasha, and without Coulson.

Clint's fingers dig into Coulson's shoulders, and he rolls his hips against him, kissing him almost desperately. He needs to distract himself, he needs to burn Coulson's touch into his skin before he's without it for weeks.

Clint breaks the kiss long enough to rip his shirt off, and Coulson gets the hint and takes his shirt off as well, and then Clint's kissing him again, Coulson's skin warm against his. Clint wants to get off like this, their skin burning against each other, Coulson gasping breathlessly into Clint's mouth, and Clint's hand scrambling against Coulson's shoulders, but if this is the only time they're going to be together like this then Clint wants more. He wants everything. He wants to get on his knees for Coulson, he wants Coulson in him, he wants to be claimed and marked, but he can't have everything. They don't have enough time.

"Easy," Coulson says, as Clint's fingers curl into his skin. He runs soothing hands down Clint's back. "I'm not going anywhere. It's fine."

Coulson's not going anywhere, but Clint is. Still, Clint forces his touches to be gentler, and Coulson rewards him by slipping a hand between them and fumbling with the clasp on Clint's jeans.


	21. Chapter 21

Warnings: Violence, killing, being in close quarters to dead bodies

* * *

Clint's alarm goes off at 5:00am, and he groans and slams his hand down on the snooze button. He gives himself to the count of three to sit up and throw his legs over his bed and then he's turning his alarm off and stumbling towards the shower. He could've slept in a little bit longer, but he'd wanted his last long, hot shower before going on a mission where he'll be lucky if he gets two hours of running water a day, let alone having it hot.

He showers and throws on a pair of SHIELD sweats and a plain cotton shirt before stumbling out to the kitchen for a cup of tea and breakfast. He mixes granola into a bowl of yogurt and adds some chopped up banana, and he eats, mechanical, as his water boils.

He hadn't gotten to sleep until past midnight, because every time he thought he should leave Coulson and go to bed, all he could see was Marshall's body lying dead on the floor of some warehouse, and Clint had leaned in for another kiss.

Eventually, Coulson had called it a night, but he lingered at Clint's door, kissing him one last time before going to his own room. It had taken more willpower than Clint wants to admit not to follow Coulson to his bed.

Something to look forward to when he comes home, Clint tells himself as he pours his hot water into a travel mug and drops a tea packet in. He leaves it on the counter to steep and goes back to his room to brush his teeth and grab his bag.

When he gets back to the kitchen, Coulson's leaning against the counter. He looks as tired at Clint feels, and Clint notes the coffee that's already started brewing.

"You have an early morning too?" Clint asks.

"Wanted to see you off." Coulson pulls Clint in for a brief kiss—too brief—and slips a flash drive into his hand. "Upload that to your Starkpod before you get on the jet."

"Thanks." Clint slips it into his pocket, and he lingers next to Coulson for a moment longer before summoning his strength and heading out.

* * *

There are two audio files on the drive, and Clint loads them to his Starkpod while he brushes up on his Ukranian again. He mutters to himself, quiet, even though Sitwell has his headphones in so can't hear him, as he repeats phrases over and over again.

Clint doesn't have a chance to listen to the files until he's settling into the apartment SHIELD's procured for him. It's nicer than the place he stayed in the last time he was here, but now that he's been promoted from fish hand to renaissance criminal, he supposes it makes sense.

He has easy roof access which means it's easier for him to get surrounded, but he also has the ability to escape both on the street and roof level which will probably end up coming in handy.

Once he's investigated all the nooks and crannies in the small space and evaluated all the possible entrances and exits, and evaluated the advantages and disadvantages of where he is, he gets ready for bed and starts scrolling through his Starkpod.

There's one file called _Much Ado About Nothing_ and another called _My Side of the Mountain_. Clint recognizes Shakespeare so he clicks on that one first, and Natasha's voice comes through.

"Much Ado About Nothing by William Shakespeare. Act One, Scene One: Before Leonato's house."

Clint smiles and leans back to listen as his team performs _Much Ado About Nothing _for him, and suddenly he doesn't feel quite so far away.

* * *

The next morning, Clint goes out to start reaching out to people. He goes first to the bakery down the street from him.

The owner isn't involved, but his brother is, and Clint only feels a little guilty about bringing trouble to the man's business. He buys two day's worth of bread and a breakfast pastry as a peace offering.

As he's eating his pastry, a man in a pair of dark pants and even darker jacket comes in and orders something that isn't on the menu. Clint picks apart his pastry as the owner apologizes for not having what he wants.

A moment later, the brother appears from the kitchen. "Ah, a specialty item?" he asks and Clint can hear the slimy smile in his voice. "Of course. It will take some time to make, but I can get anything you want."

"Olek," the owner protests.

Clint leaves his half-eaten pastry in the table, but he takes his bread with him as he saunters up to the counter. He flashes Olek and the newcomer a smile. "I'm sorry. You're into specialty items now? Is this a recent business expansion?"

Olek frowns. "Do I know you, sir?"

Clint's smile gets a touch more dangerous. "You're going to wish you didn't. I'm the man you're trying to replace. Is there a good place we can talk? I'm sure there's just a misunderstanding that we can easily work out." Clint reaches into his coat like he's going to pull a gun, and Olek pales.

"I'm not trying to replace anyone," Olek says. "I work in my brother's bakery. That's it."

Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bullet that had killed Marshall. He sets it down on the counter. "So it's a coincidence that not a week after my guy is murdered, you're moving in on his territory?"

Olek's eyes look like they're about to pop out of his head, and he's starting to sweat. "I don't know what you're talking about. I swear." He looks to the customer for help, and Clint suspects that maybe Olek's telling the truth. He's been recruited to run weapons, because he has the bakery as a cover. It's the clients Clint should be pressing for information.

"In that case, you won't mind if I have chat with this gentleman about where to best procure his," Clint pauses, "specialty good." He nods to Olek, and wraps his hand around the customer's arm and hauls him out of the bakery.

"Who are you?" the man demands, twisting, trying to get free. "I just wanted pastry!"

"You're a terrible liar, and I don't have the patience for your games. I went on a well-earned vacation only to have to cut it short, because someone thought they'd start killing my men. So not only am I down an employee, but I didn't get the chance to work on my tan. Someone is going to pay for that, and right now, it's looking like it's going to be you."

"This is about Hedeon?" the man asks. "I heard what happened to him, but I had nothing to do with it. I liked him. Fair prices, didn't threaten too much. It was a good arrangement, but he's gone, and I still have needs. I had to find a new source. It's just business."

"Then why don't we do business," Clint says. "After all, everything that belonged to Hedeon belonged to me. I'll honor his contracts."

The man nods, and Clint lets him go with a small shove.

"Before you go," Clint says, and he smirks as the man's face drains completely of color. Clint flips him a coin. "Go get yourself a nice pastry. I'll meet you there at this time tomorrow to go over details."

* * *

Clint checks and cleans his guns that night when he gets back from exploring the small village. He also cleans his knives, and he puts together tomorrow's outfit, making sure there are enough places to hide his weapons.

It seems like Olek has replaced Marshall, but he knows nothing. Meaning Clint's going to have to rattle Olek's customers or even plain out steal them in order to get the big guy's attention. Of course, doing that is a good way for Clint to end up as dead as Marshall had.

He goes to his kitchen to make dinner, because going through the motions of cooking will help to calm him down. He's not going to die. He's going to find out who had killed Marshall, put a bullet in him, and go back home to Coulson and the Avengers.

Clint eats and makes his plan for tomorrow and then he goes back and listens to the next act of _Much Ado_ and goes to bed.

* * *

Clint picks a roof diagonally across from the bakery, and he sits there for the two hours before his meeting with Kyrylo. It's why he notices the way Lyak seems nervous as he opens shop, why he knows that the fish stand across the street isn't supposed to be there and that the man delivering papers isn't the one who usually does it.

Clint slips from the roof and follows the paper man to the next building he's delivering to, a bar that isn't even open yet. Clint lets himself into the bar, and he pulls the paper man in, wrestling him to the ground, pinning him in a matter of seconds.

"I just deliver papers!" the man protest as Clint wraps a bit of rope around his wrists, pulling tight and looping the knots so there's no give.

"Bullshit," Clint says and he hauls the man to his feet. "You're on the lookout for me. Did a pretty shitty job seeing as I got the drop on you. Fish man working with you or are there several people that want me dead?"

The man spits at Clint's feet. He takes that as they're working together. He shoves a dirty rag in the man's mouth to keep him quiet and slips out to the fish man's stand. Clint gives a boy with sunken eyes and trembling hands enough money to buy a week's worth of fish and asks him to make a ruckus when he buys from Clint's target.

The boy, not wanting to lose the money, does as he asks, and Clint has no problem getting up behind the fish vendor without being noticed. He slings his arm around the man's shoulder, and his free hand is in his pocket, presses the butt of his gun against the man's side.

"Friend!" Clint says, overly cheerful as the man stiffens next to him. "You've been working hard this morning. Come, get a drink with me. I'll even pay."

Clint half-drags the man to the bar with him, and as soon as they're through the doors, the man moves. Clint's expecting it, and he ducks out of the way of the man's first swing. The second catches him across the jaw, but Clint lands a punch of his own as well as a kick in quick succession, and after only a small scuffle, he has this one subdued too.

They're both bound and sitting side by side, and Clint pats them both down, coming up with two knives, a gun, and a garrote a piece.

He tsks as he sets the weapons aside. "You brought a lot of weapons." He lifts up one of the garrotes. "You really thought I was going to let you close enough to use this?" He shakes his head. "You two are the sloppy ones, not me."

The fish vendor growls something behind the rag Clint's stuck in his mouth.

"I'm going to assume that was an unimaginative threat," Clint says. "No doubt, you two were sent to kill me, because your boss has heard that I'm here to avenge my associate. Now that I'm here, I've decided to make myself a bit of competition as well. Which means I'm going to need some employees."

Clint gathers up the weapons and he takes most of them to the far corner of the bar. He sets two knives on the floor, facing each other. "How do you feel about interviewing?"

Clint wanders around to the bar, and he pulls a bottle of cheap vodka off the shelf. He opens it and takes the rag out of fish vendor's mouth and shoves the bottle in.

"A shot of courage," Clint says, laughing as the man tries to swallow, but there's too much and a lot of the vodka ends up spilling out of his mouth and down his shirt.

He gives the paper man the same treatment.

"Anyone up for seconds?" Clint asks.

They both glare at him and Clint shrugs. "I'm sure you've figured it out, but I only want one of you. And I want the best. So, I'm going to let you both go, and it's a fight to the death. Whoever is still alive at the end, is my new Hedeon. You try to escape or to kill me," Clint pulls a gun out of his pocket. "And I'll recruit somewhere else."

Clint smiles, too many teeth to be friendly, and cuts their bonds enough that with some struggling they'll be able to snap the rope. And then Clint goes to the other side of the room and watches, ready to shoot if things start to go south.

Paper man gets out of his bonds first, and he gets to both knives as fish vendor slips his rope. Fish vendor grabs the bottle of vodka, and he takes a chug before rushing the paper man. One smashed vodka bottle and several cuts later and a stab later, both men are lying on the floor. Fish vendor is bleeding out, paper man is unconscious.

There's glass and vodka and blood all over the floor.

Clint kills the paper man and goes to the bakery.

"Sorry I'm late," Clint says as he slides into the chair across from Kyrylo. "Had some business to take care of." Kyrylo jumps at the sound of Clint's voice. Clint's smile is far from pleasant. "Surprised to see me? Did you hire those two men or is there someone out there watching over you?"

Kyrylo stutters and almost spills his coffee.

Clint catches the cup before it spills, and he watches as Kyrylo's eyes dart to the blood stain on Clint's sleeve. "I hope you didn't hire them, because it would've been a waste of money." Clint grins and leans in. "You're clearly working with your supplier even though I've made you a better offer. Tell him that he killed one of mine so I killed two of his, and in my book, we're even now. Got it?"

Kyrylo nods. Clint snatches his pastry and walks out.

* * *

Clint lays low for a while. He keeps an eye on the bakery, and he tracks Kyrylo's movement and to a lesser extent he follows Olek.

He's there when the clean-up crew comes in for the fish vendor and the paper man, but that doesn't lead anywhere. It's just two men who drag the bodies out and burn them. They don't bring Clint to anyone higher up in the food chain and as far as he can tell, they're men hired specifically to deal with dead bodies. Useless then.

Kyrylo is equally useless. Clint isn't sure how he gets the message to whoever killed Marshall, but the day after Clint's little stunt, there are three people guarding him. They're still easy to spot, but they're looking out for each other meaning Clint isn't going to try and grab them. Not that he was going to anyways. He's waiting for someone worth his time.

Olek continues to talk to the occasional customer about specialty goods, but Clint hasn't seen him meet with anyone either. He has, however, watched the frown lines in Lyak's forehead deepen by the day. Lyak's discovered what Olek is doing or at least knows that his brother is up to no good, and he doesn't like it. Clint can use that to his advantage.

He bides his time for two weeks, giving things a chance to settle, and in that time he doesn't have a lot of downtime, but he manages to finish _Much Ado_.

On the night he makes plans for his next move, he plays _My Side of the Mountain_, and he grins like an idiot when Coulson's voice, warm and steady pours through his headphones. He stays up an hour later than he was intending to just to listen to Coulson tell him the tale of a boy who runs away from home and adopts a peregrine falcon.

* * *

The next morning, Clint goes to the bakery right when it opens, and there's no one there except for him and Lyak.

Lyak's eyes narrow when he sees Clint. "You've brought trouble here. You're not welcome."

Clint admires a man who will stick to his principles even when it could cost him a profit. Or his life. Of course, Clint has no desire to kill Lyak. He tries to avoid killing innocents.

"I'm not the one who brought the trouble," Clint says and he leans against the counter. "I'm only here to end it."

Lyak reaches for his knife, and it isn't until he has it securely in his grip that he looks interested. "You want to end it?"

Clint nods. "A friend of mine was killed a few weeks back. The man who killed him is the same one who has pulled your brother into his illegal dealings." Lyak's mouth twists at the reminder of what his brother's doing. "I want to remove the man from this area."

Lyak shakes his head. "You mean you want to remove him from this life."

Clint shrugs. "Semantics."

"I don't like killers," Lyak says. "Were you behind the deaths at the bar?"

"I heard that was a drunken brawl," Clint says, adopting his best innocent face. "All I want is your brother's employer."

"I can't help you," Lyak says. "I don't know who he is."

Clint knows better than to push right now so instead he, slowly, pulls out a couple coins. "In that case, could I have three loaves of bread?"

Lyak frowns like he's not sure what to make of Clint's behavior but after a moment he shrugs and goes to get the bread.

It's fresh out of the oven so Clint rips off a piece and eats it while it's hot. He gives Lyak a salute and goes back to his apartment.

Time for the next stage in his plan.

* * *

Kyrylo is picking up a shipment of weapons in four days. Clint's gathered that much from following Kyrylo and listening to his conversations with Olek. Clint also knows, from a quick search of Kyrylo's apartment, what the satchel that's going to hold the money looks like.

It takes Clint thirty minutes to track down an identical one. It takes him almost the full four days to counterfeit enough money for the payment. He has no idea why SHIELD thought part of his kit for this op should be a printing press, but he's incredibly grateful.

* * *

On the night that Kyrylo's set to make the exchange, Clint dresses in fleece lined pants and a puffy jacket so he looks bigger than he is. He also wraps a scarf tight around his neck and puts his hood up. Between the clothes and the dark, he's confident that no one's going to recognize him or even get a partial look at his face.

Switching the satchels is easy, and the thrill of it reminds Clint of his younger days at the circus when he made his money pick pocketing. Trick had put a stop to that, claiming that it was bad for business, but he'd opened Clint to more lucrative businesses so Clint hadn't been too upset. Why settle for forty bucks in cash when you get could a couple grand in jewelry?

Clint stashes the satchel with the real money up in the tree next to the village marker, and he ditches his puffy coat and pants there as well and changes into a more functional fighting outfit. By the time he's in his cargo pants and long sleeve and has all his weapons strapped into place, Kyrylo has enough of a head start that Clint can start following him.

* * *

Clint finds a new tree to perch in, and he watches the exchange through his binoculars. Kyrylo inspects the guns, tests one out, and hands over his satchel. Olek flips through the money, and, satisfied, they part.

Clint waits for the entire area to clear before going back to his tree and collecting his clothes and the money.

* * *

Clint goes to the bakery the next morning and only buys one loaf, telling Lyak that he'll be back in tomorrow.

When he arrives, Lyak is scared, and he fumbles through the loaves of bread before handing them over. He wraps one in yellow paper, the rest in white, and he puts the yellow one on top.

"Eat this one first," he says.

Clint nods and takes the bread home. When he breaks the loaf, he finds a piece of paper rolled up inside.

_Vasyl. He's going to kill Olek. Please help._

Clint grins and slips out to find a secure place to make a call.

* * *

He stays in the area as Sitwell goes to his contacts to dig up what he can on Vasyl. Clint considers calling Coulson or Natasha, and then he reminds himself that he's a professional and instead waits for Sitwell's report.

* * *

Vasyl, aka The King, is man behind the weapons trafficking. He also owns a very lucrative casino in the city, and he's the kind of man that keeps his hands clean so that he can live large and enjoy the money he makes from his dealings.

Clint's glad that he's the show type and not the hidden behind-the-scenes type, because this makes it easier for Clint to do his job.

He ends his call with Sitwell and hitches a ride back to the village before going to pay Lyak a visit.

"This loaf is stale," Clint says, handing a loaf of bread, still in its bag, to Lyak. "I want two fresh ones or I'll get my bread elsewhere."

Lyak starts to look outraged and Clint looks pointedly at the bag. When Lyak's eyes widen, Clint knows that he's seen the money Clint shoved in there.

"Take a vacation," Clint says, quieter this time. "You and your brother lay low for a bit. Better yet, move. New names would be good."

Lyak looks around his shop, and Clint's sure he's seeing the improvements he's made, and familiar faces of regular customers and maybe even relatives, and Clint feels a pang of sympathy for the man. He's going to have to give up his entire of his life because his brother was an idiot.

"My bread?" Clint asks, a touch of impatience in his voice. A line is starting to form behind him, and he doesn't want to arouse suspicion.

"Of course," Lyak says and he goes to get the bread.

* * *

Clint spends that day and the next making preparations. He moves out of his apartment in the village, and he finds a crumbling room in the city to rent. He calls Sitwell to affirm the safe house situation in the city and then he watches.

He spends two days cataloguing the flow of traffic in and out of the casino and the next two days after that observing a slice of Vasyl's room using his scope, a crack in the wall, and a conveniently placed bug.

After that, he feels ready to move in. He doesn't like going in without any weapons, but he'll be checked at the entrance to the casino and again at the backroom and carrying is a sure way to end up dead.

He spends an hour on the floor, doing some light gambling, flirting with waitresses and stashing weapons throughout the room. The knife from a gentleman's steak goes missing and ends up in a potted plant by the back hallway. Another knife gets taped under a table near the entrance.

There aren't many other things that can be used as weapons. In a pinch he can take the fake trees and swing them at someone's head, but there's nothing else small that Clint can hide away.

Once he's done all the prep he can, he heads towards the back. He knows he's at the right place when two men in suits that are clearly packing step in front of him.

"This area is restricted," the one of the left says.

"I'm here to see Vasyl," Clint says and he can't help his grin as the hired muscle look surprised.

"He asked for a meeting with you?"

Clint thinks about the bullet in Marshall's head. "He was rather insistent."

The one on the right frowns. "He didn't mention nothing about a meeting."

"I've found something that I believe belongs to him." Clint pulls out a wad of bills, the cash strip still binding it tight. He hands it over. "Heard rumors of a deal going south."

The man turns the money over in his hands before pocketing it and leading Clint down the hall. They bring him into a room full of men in expensive suits drinking and smoking. Clint thinks they need to stop watching so many bad mob movies.

"Boss," the man who had been on the right says. He slides the money across the table.

The one who had been on the left pats Clint down. Clint watches who the other guard nods to, watches the man look interested, and watches as the man next to him reaches out to take the money.

Vasyl is the one not moving. The one reaching for the money is second in command? Another flunkie? The intel on him hadn't been great, and there hadn't been any clear pictures of anyone on his payroll. Well, no one important anyways.

The guard finishes his pat down and Clint makes his move as the man's standing up and off guard. Clint's elbow smashes into the man's face and his other hand grabs the man's gun, and Clint gets two shots off before he has to dive to avoid the room's reaction.

He doesn't waste time checking to make sure that he hit Vasyl and Vasyl's decoy. He fires off a couple distraction shots so he can get the door open and escape into the hallway. People are already rushing back. Clint wonders if they heard the shots or if there's an alarm system. He hopes it's the first. Alarm system with make his escape much more complicated.

He dodges a shot, fires off his gun again and slips into the closest door he can find. There's a man having a private blackjack game that for some reason involves half naked women. Clint doesn't question, he just shoots the dealer who's reaching for a gun and locks the door.

Clint drops his empty gun, grabs the dealer's gun and pushes the chips towards the shell-shocked man, before searching for a way out of the room. He's clearly not going through the door, but there are no other doors and no windows.

Ceiling it is then.

He pops open the vent, grateful that it's big enough for him to fit in, and he hoists himself up as he hears something wriggling the doorknob. They're going to break in soon, and it's going to be obvious where he went. He needs to move faster.

He scrambles down the vent shaft, in the opposite direction of the people who are chasing him, and he's relieved when he finds the one that goes up. He's slower going up, because he has to press his body against the edges to keep him from sliding down, but soon he's busting out and on the roof.

There are three men stationed on the roof. Clint shoots one and dives to the left, firing off two more shots before leaping off the roof. He lands and rolls on the next roof, but when he springs to his feet, a bullet grazes his shoulder. Another shoots clean through his leg. He curses as he falls to the ground.

He can hear shouting, and he's sure they're getting back-up. They're going to be on him in a second. He needs to move. He forces himself to his feet, and he hobbles to the edge of the roof. It's not that far to next rooftop, and that one's lower than this one. He should be able to make it, and if he doesn't, well, he'd rather die by landing on the sidewalk than being shot or tortured by the enemy.

He jumps.

His leg screams in pain when he lands. He bites his hand to keep from screaming out loud.

He gets across three more roofs before his leg hurt too much to move let alone jump. They're going to follow him here. This isn't good.

He looks around him for something to use. He's on a residential building, because there's laundry hanging up. He can use the rope to strangle someone if they get close enough. But if they get that close then one hit to his leg will incapacitate him.

He looks down at his leg. He's bleeding pretty heavily. First order of business, keep himself from bleeding out. He grabs a shirt off the line and starts tearing it into strips so he can bind his wound.

"Hey!" a female voice says sharply. "What do you think you're doing?"

Clint has his gun trained on her in an instant. Her being a young woman, probably no more than twenty five. She goes from angry that someone's stealing her laundry to scared, and Clint only feels a moment of guilt. He can hear the angry voices getting closer. He needs cover. More importantly, he needs help.

"You know Vasyl?" Clint asks. "The owner of the casino?"

The girl's lip curls in disgust. "Who doesn't."

Good. He can work with this. "I just shot him in the head."

The woman looks at him, looks at his gun, and then cocks her head as she hears the people coming. In an instant, she's at Clint's side, retying his wound for him.

"Put the gun away," she says. "You aren't shooting anyone in this building."

"I certainly hope not," he says.

* * *

Clint spends a whole day in the cellar of the complex, hiding under a blanket with someone's dead grandfather. It isn't the first time he's had to hide with a dead body, but he was really hoping that it would be the last.

Clint recites as much of _The Outsiders_ as he can to himself, and when he his mind becomes too scrambled to do that he names every SHIELD personnel he can remember. After that he names the Avengers and all their code names (Natasha takes him a long time). When he's too far gone to do that he names bow types.

Once he gets to a continuous loop of _One more minute, and I'm free. One more minute, and I'm free_, he loses track of time. And then Aneta, the woman he met on the roof, is pulling the sheet back and saying, "I think we're good, come on."

Between the lack of sleep, lack of food, blood loss, ad whole lying next to a dead body for hours, Clint's unsteady on his feet. He winces when he puts too much weight on his leg, and he has to lean on Aneta to get out of the basement.

"I need a little more help," Clint says. "I'm sorry to impose, but I need you to get me somewhere."

* * *

They sneak out that night after Clint scans the area looking for threats. He thinks they're clear. He hopes they're clear. He doesn't want Aneta getting killed because of him.

She helps him to his safe house, and Clint gives her a portion of the money he'd stolen from Kyrylo. She tries to give it back and then she tries to stay with him until someone comes to help him, but he doesn't want her getting any more involved than she already has.

As soon as he's alone, he calls Sitwell. "I'm ready to go home."

"We're ready to have you home. How urgent?"

Clint checks his wound. The edges are starting to crust and turn yellow. That's not good. "As soon as possible."

He hangs up and cleans the wound as best as he can and re-bandages it. And then he sits against the wall and puts in his headphones. He can't risk sleeping, because his head is fuzzy, and his wound is infected, and he might not wake up if he closes his eyes.

Coulson's voice fills his ears as Clint restarts his recording of _My Side of the Mountain_.

He starts to float, his mind separating from his body, the words floating through his ears after only a few minutes.

He hears footsteps, and he's not sure if they're real or just in his head. If they're real he should do something. Are footsteps bad? Maybe. What should he be doing? He can't remember. He can't think.

"Clint?" someone asks, but his name is distorted, drawn out and fuzzy.

"Banjo?" he asks. That's who comes and rescues him from the forest. Helps him when he gets sick. When he gets lonely.

There are hands lifting him up. There's another hand on his forehead. They're dragging him away. He can't go away. Not yet. He needs Frightful. He can't go anywhere without Frightful.

"Frightful," he mumbles.

"Shit, he's hallucinating."

Clint closes his eyes and finally lets sleep take him over.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: So, last chapter. Thank to everyone who's been reading and reviewing, and I hope you all enjoyed it even though I spent a lot of time making Clint absolutely miserable.

Also, I forgot how long ago I wrote this, because I wrote the whole thing, edited it, then started posting, but a couple chapters ago there was a reference to the start of the football season and this chapter has a reference to the start of Dancing with the Stars and this project has been in the works for kind of a long time, and now it's come to an end which is both cool and kind of sad.

* * *

When Clint's next awake, he's in a white room. White rooms mean hospitals. He feels a moment of panic and then he looks to the right and there's Sitwell sitting there next to his bed.

He's safe, but he doesn't want to see Sitwell. If he's back at SHIELD then where's his team? Where's Coulson?

"Glad to see you're awake," Sitwell says. "You look less glad to see me."

The Avengers are probably on a mission. Or maybe they're busy. Do they know he's here? Coulson has to know he's here. Coulson knows everything. And Tony hacks everything. So they know he's here. But they're not here for him.

Sitwell rolls his eyes. "They're outside causing trouble. Fury won't them in until you're debriefed, and they won't leave until they're let in. So, let's debrief."

Clint sits up so fast his head spins. Sitwell laughs and hands him a bottle of water.

* * *

Clint debriefs with record speed, but it had been a long term op so by the time he's covered everything, his water bottle is empty, his throat is sore, and he's exhausted.

He can barely keep his eyes open, but he doesn't want to fall asleep. There are people he wants to see. People who are waiting to see him.

He sees Sitwell moving towards the button that controls the morphine, and Clint hisses a warning.

Sitwell pulls back, raising his hands in surrender. "I get it. You want to see them. If they agitate you," he trails off, trusting that Clint will understand that he'll be drugged and forbidden visitors until he's healed.

Clint nods and Sitwell's almost bowled over when he opens the doors. All the Avengers pile in before Sitwell can leave. Coulson's the last person to come through the door, and he closes it behind him.

Clint's tracking his movement, feeling a smile swell up inside of him, but a moment later, Tony fills his entire vision. "They said you went and got yourself shot and then you were stupid enough to let it get infected."

Clint grins, and it comes too easily. Damn drugs. "Can only have so many geniuses on the team."

Tony rolls his eyes, but there's a fondness in them that makes Clint uncomfortable. "Did you really all show up to gawk at me being bedridden?"

"Some people can pull off the hospital gown," Tony says.

Clint laughs because that is definitely a lie. No one looks good in hospital gowns. Clint pulls his sheet further up so it's tucked under his chin. But when the fabric brushes the underside of his chin he has a flashback to Aneta's basement. The shroud over his head, the dead body next to him.

His body jerks, and he throws the sheet off, and he's kicking at it as it gets tangled up in his legs, and he needs to get away. The stench of death of overwhelming, and the man has started to decay, and his face is right next to Clint's and-

Clint rolls over and throws up.

"Holy shit!" Tony says as he jumps out of the way.

Clint coughs and vomits again, even as the real world comes back to him. He's at SHIELD, not in a basement in Ukraine. He's surrounded by his team. No dead bodies.

He throws up one last time and then Coulson's at his side, offering him a bottle of water and a washcloth.

Clint wipes his forehead and them his mouth, and he swishes the water around in his mouth and spits into the sink next to his bed.

"Sorry," Clint says, because the room now smells like vomit, and he'd almost thrown up on his teammates, and that probably isn't the welcome they were hoping for. "I—"

"It's fine," Natasha says. She gives him a look that says _don't talk unless you want to, you don't owe us explanations, I understand_.

Clint, grateful, sinks back against his pillows. "Thanks for the recordings. It was nice to hear your voices."

"It was Steve's idea," Tony says. "The recording. Thor's the one who decided it was Shakespeare. We've started recording books for local libraries. Coulson's arranged for us to do all sorts community service type things. Oh, you're just in time. We're going to the local orphanage and playing with the kids at the end of the week. You think you'll be well enough for that? You should be. Your fever's broken and that was the worst. You might need a cane for a bit to walk, but I bet the kids will love that. Do you know what else they love? They—"

"I think Agent Barton's had enough excitement for now," Coulson interrupts and Clint's grateful, because all of Stark's words are starting to blur together, and Clint feels bad for not being able to hold onto all of them.

"Will you return home soon?" Thor asks.

Clint looks around the room, at each of the Avengers and then his gaze lands on Coulson, who's been edging closer and closer to Clint's bed. He thinks he's being subtle, but Clint's too well trained not to notice.

"I am home." Clint smiles and closes his eyes.

* * *

When he opens them again, his head is clearer, and his floor is clean, and the air smells faintly of lilacs.

Coulson holds up a can of Febreeze. "Thought you'd like it better than stale vomit."

"Thank you, sir." Clint looks around. The room is empty except for the two of them. His sheet is tucked around his waist and nowhere near his face. "You read the debrief?"

Coulson holds up the packet in front of him. "Lacey's going to want to talk to you."

"Because I killed people or because I spent a day lying next to a dead guy?"

"Probably both." The corners of Coulson's lips quirk up in a smile before it smoothes away, replaced with concern. "Are you okay?"

"I will be." Clint runs his hands over his sheet. "Probably won't be able to sleep next to anyone for a while." He gauges Coulson's face, waiting to see disappointment or repulsion or rejection, but he doesn't see any of them.

"Understandable." He pulls his laptop out and slides his chair next to Clint. "You missed the new season of Dancing with the Stars. It's the All-Star season. Pamela Anderson is back."

"Really?" Clint asks.

Coulson's eyes crinkle as he goes to Hulu and loads the first episode. "So's Bristol Palin. She's gotten better. Lost some weight too."

Coulson pulls over the bed tray so he can put his laptop on it, freeing up one of his hands to drape over the bed railing and hold Clint's. Clint laces his fingers through Coulson's and settles in for two hours of watching people he doesn't know dance poorly.

* * *

Clint doesn't go to play with the kids. It's his second day out of the hospital, and it hurts to move too much; plus, he's self-conscious about walking around with a cane. So he waves his teammates, promises he'll join them next time, and sinks down on the couch to relax.

He's glad to be back at the tower; he hates hospitals, and he has missed his team, but they're overwhelming, and they're a lot to handle while recovering. His body is happy to melt into the couch, and he picks up the remote and starts flipping channels.

He's watching Clean Sweep, because it always interests him to see what people choose to keep, what they assign sentimental value to, and the couple is sorting their possessions into Keep, Sell, and Trash piles when Coulson comes in with a paper bag full of takeout from Sabatini's.

"Momma is very worried about you," Coulson says, sitting down next to Clint. "You can tell because she added an extra order of garlic bread and a bowl of minestrone soup."

Clint raises his eyebrows. "What did you tell her?"

"That you got shot." Coulson smiles at Clint's look and hands him a plastic container full of pasta and chicken parm. "I told her you were in the wrong part of down, got yourself shot, and that I'm being a good boyfriend and taking care of you." Coulson hands Clint a plastic knife and fork and sets the garlic bread down between them before diving in for his chicken parm.

"Boyfriend? You chose to come out to Momma Sabatini?"

Coulson laughs and pops the top off his dinner. "She thought we were together the first time I brought you to my apartment. Should I go get wine? Are you feeling well enough for wine?"

"Water's fine for me," Clint says. He twirls some spaghetti around his fork and then spears a piece of chicken and pops it into his mouth.

Coulson gets up and he comes back with two glasses and a pitcher of water. "Italian food, water, and home improvement shows."

"Real quality date," Clint says, but his throat catches on his laugh, because this isn't a date. This is domestic. This is what two people do when they've been together for a long time and are comfortable with each other and their routines, and he supposes that he and Coulson have been together for a long time, but they hadn't been _together_ together.

"You're thinking too much," Coulson says. He hands Clint a piece of garlic bread.

Clint eats it and leans in so he shoulder is brushing Coulson's. "I do that sometimes."

"I know."

* * *

Clint makes dinner, tacos because they're easy, and he's amused at Thor's penchant for taco sauce, and because he can have a taco salad to make up for all the bread he ate at lunch.

Coulson has to go back to SHIELD after lunch, but he's back for dinner, and the two of them listen to the team's stories from the day. Bruce laughs at the kids who would poke him and throw things at him and try and provoke him into Hulking out. Natasha talks about the little girls that wanted to play dress up, but Clint's the only one who dares to laugh when she scowls about being put into a frilly pink tutu.

Thor apparently has little nieces and nephews back on Asgard so he had been a natural there, making himself into a human jungle gym, and he tells Clint about how he was able to walk even with a child clinging to each of his arms and legs. Steve had brought his old war uniform and played soldier, and Tony scoffs and claims that kids are stupid and he has more important things to do with his time, but Clint saw the folded up piece of paper in Tony's pocket when he came in. Someone's drawn him a picture, and he's kept it so for all his bullshit, he'd enjoyed at least part of the day.

"They hope you come next time," Thor says. "Natasha was regaling them with tales of your adventures from your youth, and they are eager to learn."

"I told them you were in the circus," Natasha says, and Clint laughs as he watches her try to delicately eat her taco. There's no way to delicately eat a hard shell taco. She takes a bite and the shell cracks down the bottom. She loses half of her taco.

"What do they want to learn?" Clint asks. "How to throw knives? Cheat at cards? Drink?"

"I doubt they'll let you do any of those," Coulson says. "Maybe you could teach them how to do makeup."

Clint shrugs and sprinkle some cheese on his salad. "That I could do. Face painting? It's been years since I've had to do that."

"You can face paint?" Steve asks. "Like they'd do at the carnivals? With the lion face and cats and clowns and everything?"

Clint nods, slowly, because he's worried that Steve's going to announce a team costume party or something.

"That's pretty nifty," Steve says and he digs back into his dinner.

Clint looks over at Coulson _Nifty?_ he mouths, because who even says that. Coulson shrugs and gives the hard taco shells a pointed look. Clint wavers before picking one up and crumbling into his salad to give it a bit of a crunch.

"Movie night tonight?" Tony asks as he goes for round two of tacos.

Clint had been hoping to spend some time with Coulson after dinner, but he's already said no to one team thing today. He probably shouldn't ditch another.

"Only if we watch _The Breakfast Club_," Coulson says. "It's a classic, and Steve hasn't seen it yet."

"I like that one," Bruce says.

"It's settled then." Tony grins and takes another bite of his taco.

* * *

The movie is torture. Clint curls up on the couch, up against the edge of the arm rest, and Coulson sits down next to him, all unassuming and with a blanket and a, "I know you've been cold lately," and he lays the blanket across from them and when the lights go out Coulson slips his hand under the blanket and curls it around Clint's inner thigh.

Clint looks over him as if to say _really?_ but Coulson just smiles and turns his attention to the movie.

Ten minutes in, Clint's wondering if he can flee to his room when his phone vibrates. It shocks him enough that he twitches, and Coulson pulls back, concerned. Clint digs his phone out of his pocket. It's Barney.

He shows the caller ID to Coulson and then slips out from under the blanket to head back to his room for some privacy.

He waits until he's in the hallway to answer the call. "Clint here."

"You bastard," Barney says. "What happened to telling me when you went on long ops?"

Clint freezes up. He had completely forgotten. He hadn't called Barney before he left. He was so busy with Coulson and making sure things were good with his team that he'd forgotten about Barney. His brother. The one person Clint was never supposed to forget.

"I called your phone, and when you didn't answer after the second time I called, I poked around SHIELD, and I found out they sent you to the Ukraine. To deal with the people who had killed another agent!"

He was worried, Clint realizes with a bit of shock. Barney was worried about him. Clint's always been the brother who worried, wondering where Barney was, if he was okay, if Clint would turn the news on one day and find out that Barney had been arrested or killed. And now he's put Barney in that position.

"And then I hear that you've come back, but that you've been shot, and you get locked up in medical for days, and no one hears anything, and are you going to say anything?"

Barney's talking enough for the both of them. He always does. And Clint doesn't know what to say. I'm sorry isn't enough, you're right is obvious and doesn't need to be said. "I'm almost healed."

"Oh. Great. You're almost healed. You almost died!"

"No need for melodramatics." Clint forces himself to keep his voice level, because they don't need two people shouting in this conversation. But he wants to shout. He wants to ask Barney how it feels to be the one worrying, the one who doesn't know, but he doesn't, because this isn't a form of revenge. Clint had honestly forgotten.

"I did but that happens often in my career. I survived and I'm doing better, and I can't tell you that I'm not going to get hurt again, because I will. I might even die. There's no use getting all worked up about it."

There's a moment of silence before Barney explodes. "Are you trying to rationalize at me? You could've died, and I'm upset about it, and you're not going to tell me to stop feeling. Some people actually have these things called emotions that they express towards other people!"

"I have emotions," Clint fires back. "I have always felt things. I just don't always talk about it. There was never exactly a lot of room for my voice when you were around."

Barney laughs, disbelievingly. "I call you to express concern, and you decide to fight about our childhood? Are you serious? Don't you have a shrink for these things?"

"I don't want to fight with you," Clint says, and he's tired now. So tired. He's been living under the weight of Barney and his reputation for Clint's whole life, even now when he's supposedly carved out a place for himself. He doesn't want to drag up their childhood demons and Clint's insecurities, and all the problems they've had, because Barney's right. Clint could've died in the Ukraine, and he has people who would miss him. That's not something to fight about.

"I'm sorry," Clint says and he drops down onto his bed. "I've had a rough few days."

"Days? Sounds like a rough mission."

"It wasn't all bad. Got fresh bread almost every day."

Barney laughs. "You've always liked bread. I know you can't tell me details, but everything go okay?"

Clint had gotten shot, had to leap across rooftops on a bum leg, had to get close with a dead body, and then had such a bad fever he'd hallucinated but other than that it was fine. "I was successful and I'm alive." And in the end, that's all the really matters. "I'm back with my team."

"Yeah, the super hero squad. You still working with Coulson?"

Clint thinks about Coulson's hand under the blanket, how it had slid up Clint's leg, and he blushes and is glad his phone doesn't have video. "Yeah. He's the team's handler."

"Still cooking for him?"

Clint's glad they're not fighting anymore. Not so glad they chose this to be the direction their conversation went in. "I cook for the whole team."

"Cook _for_ them? You don't cook and they happen to show up?"

"You're a jerk sometimes," Clint says.

"Sometimes? I'm clearly not trying hard enough."

Clint laughs and the conversation meanders away from Clint and his team to Barney and his newest handler.

* * *

Clint stays in his room after the phone call ends. _The Breakfast Club_ isn't his favorite movie, and he's feeling a bit emotionally drained after that conversation and not up for smiling or being around other people. He wants to be by himself so he can piece himself back together.

Barney does that to him sometimes. Strips away Agent Barton and leaves Clint the little boy who'd wanted to protect his brother or the angry teenager that wanted to be better than him. Clint's come a long way since then, so has Barney, but sometimes Clint forgets.

His phone buzzes, and he flips it open.

Natasha: Everything all right?

Clint shakes his head. He supposes it wasn't a large leap to realize that he'd taken a phone call, and there's really one person he talks to that isn't in the living room right now, but still. Sometimes Natasha's powers of observation worry him. At least he doesn't have any secrets he's keeping from her.

Clint: Fine. Not in the mood for the movie  
Natasha: Neither am I. It's Bruce's favorite though so he doesn't want to leave  
Clint: So you're going to text me?  
Natasha: =D  
Clint: You're one of the best spies in the business. Emoticons are beneath you  
Natasha: The only thing I want beneath me is Bruce  
Clint: Okay. We're done.

He sets his phone on his nightstand and ignores it even though it buzzes nine times in quick succession. He knows that Natasha and Bruce are together. They have been since she went to find him, and he knows they're sleeping together, but he doesn't need to know details. She's the one obsessed with knowing absolutely everything not him.

He gets up and brushes his teeth and washes his face and gets changed for bed. As he pulling his soft, worn shirt over his head, he's struck by how glad he's home. The op had been necessary, but he likes having his own bed and his own clothes. He likes being Clint, and he likes having a team to come back to and a brother to talk to. And he really likes-

"They're swapping stories of the drugs they've done," Coulson says coming into the room. "I figured it'd be best if I left."

"Don't you already know that?" Clint asks.

"I know it from reading it on paper, not hearing the stories of the experiences."

As Coulson gets closer, Clint realizes that he's in pajamas too, a pair of gray sweatpants and black t-shirt which means he went to his room before coming here. Which means he got ready for bed and came to Clint's room, and yeah, it was probably so he could brush his teeth and get comfortable, but he's ready for bed and in Clint's room, and Clint's reading way too much into this.

"You're thinking again," Coulson says and he hesitates at the edge of the bed, waiting for Clint to reach out and draw him in.

"It's a bad habit."

Coulson smiles. "We all have a couple of those. And I have an easy solution for this one."

Clint raises his eyebrows, curious, and Coulson grins and leans in for a kiss.

Oh, Clint thinks, and he slips his hands under Coulson's shirt, so his palms are pressing against warm skin, and he roams over Coulson's chest before slipping around to pull him on top of Clint.

Clint hasn't done this in a long time. He doesn't do relationships, probably because he's unknowingly been in a relationship with Coulson for years, and he doesn't do casual sex. But Coulson knows all of that. He knows about Clint's abandonment issues and his intimacy issues, and he probably knows the last time Clint had sex as well as who it was with.

That's actually kind of creepy, and Clint realizes that he's thinking too much again.

"You're not doing a very good job distracting me," Clint says.

Coulson blinks once which is almost an exclamation of surprise coming from him. "Is that a challenge?"

Clint's not sure what the right answer to that question is, and then Coulson is dropping his weight on top of Clint, kissing the last of Clint's breath out of his mouth and rocking his hips against Clint's.

Yes, Clint thinks as Coulson's teeth bite at his lower lip, as Coulson's hands push at the elastic of Clint's sweatpants.

"Yes," Clint breathes as Coulson lifts his hips long enough to get both their sweatpants down so he can fist both of them.

Coulson chuckles, his breath warm and wet against Clint's mouth, and Clint gasps and tilts his head back, and he thinks that maybe it's okay that he doesn't know what he's doing here. He's always been good at learning.


End file.
